Candy Shop:The Eternity Gauntlet
by CSI Clue
Summary: Miss Chocolate and Mr. Peppermint must face a trial where two heads are better than none.
1. Chapter 1

Candy Shop: The Eternity Gauntlet, Stage One

Eternity hadn't lasted.

It had started in 1865, thanks to an enterprising group of miners and a promising vein of copper along the distant hills. A few buildings went up: a general store, a blacksmith shop, a saloon complete with bordello rooms upstairs. For a few years industry was good, and the weekly shipments of ore out of Eternity to the smelter in Wit's End were enough to keep the town in business. They'd had their fair share of shoot-outs and robberies; a bad fire or two, but nothing they couldn't overcome.

Except when the copper began to trickle down. The vein that had once been so generous eventually faded out after six years, and shift in economy hurt everyone. The land was too scrub for farming, and too dry for cattle or sheep; eventually even the first founders moved on, leaving the husk of Eternity to stand alone under the desert sun for a century and a half, her creaking timbers and desolate road empty and dry.

Eternity was the perfect location.

Currently the town was surrounded by a high electrified fence along the perimeter of its three acres, accessible only to those with the keypad combination and correct fingerprint scan. Signs warned trespassers, but better testimony to the strength of the current was provided by the bleaching skeletons of former rabbits and birds that dangled sporadically from the wires in the breeze.

A ghost town with a secret.

00oo00oo00

Sara looked down at her handiwork and felt a keen sense of pride. She had skills in esoteric areas, and not many people would have known that she'd mastered Chinese and Celtic and Matthew Walkers so well. Part of it she owed to her mother—all those summers twisting hemp and working it to sellable knickknacks for the tourists—and part of it was her own drive to learn and conquer.

She'd mastered physics and yoga this way; why not knots?

Carefully Sara shifted and rose on her knees, smiling, and ran her hands lightly inside her unbuttoned shirt to caress her bare breasts

"I'd be very happy to do that for you," came the slightly irritated voice from under her. "Deliriously happy to oblige in the stroking and fondling department—"

"Mmmmm, yes I'm sure you would, but maybe it would be better if you just supervised at this point, babe. Make sure I'm doing it right . . . nice and slow, oooh, yeah this feels goooood---" she purred, letting her long hands slide up her body in lingering little strokes, enjoying the sensation, and under that, the wicked sense of power that went with it. Who knew therapy could be so . . . stimulating?

Carefully Sara loosened her straddle around Mr. Peppermint's waist, widening her knees and watched with amusement as his gaze shifted from her chest to her hips, and the curly dark tangle between them. The heat in his eyes and the intensity of his stare made her want to wriggle. She felt his stomach tense in a quick surge of arousal, and knew that if she glanced over her shoulder she'd see his shaft thickening and rising.

"You're doing fine, but I could do a better job," Mr. Peppermint assured her rapidly, and he tugged a bit on his outstretched arms, the pale muscles flexing, the dark silky hair along his armpits gleaming in the muted sunlight coming through the porthole window. "I could do an excellent job at massaging every lean secret inch of you, Frango . . . toes to nose. With my tongue."

She laughed, low and lazy, knowing the sound would arouse him further. The master cabin was warm in the mid afternoon, and the sweet susurration of the waves against the hull had a hypnotic effect. Sara shook her head and smiled down at him. "Tempting. Very tempting, but right now this is all about YOU, Mr. Peppermint."

"Ah," came his little grunt of frustration. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I'd be just as happy to make it all about YOU instead, would it?"

"Not a chance, Stud. You're going to have to lie back and focus exclusively on your very naughty self for a while," Sara purred at him, making it a point to run her fingers around her stiffening nipples. The little hurt chuff from the man under her was gratifying, and Sara rolled her head languidly, laughing a little.

"This is SO much more fun than paperwork, isn't it? You, tied up and naked, me playing with myself and just out of reach---such a nice way to spend a Saturday . . ."

The look on Mr. Peppermint's face was a twisted blend of half-lidded lust and frustration; he rocked his hips up trying to rub between Sara's thighs but she rose up higher and waggled her tongue at him. "ah-aaah—no touching. That is, you can't touch me, but I can touch you. Would you like me to touch you?"

"Yesssss. I would like that very much," Mr. Peppermint managed in an almost civilized voice. Sara ran one hand down her front, a wide palmed caress and raked her fingers through the fur between her legs, then continued forward, her palm sliding over Mr. Peppermint's stomach and chest, up his throat and to his mouth and nose.

He licked her hand, and she DID wriggle because his tongue was hot. He closed his eyes and tried to lick again, but Sara pulled her hand back and reached up, into the breast pocket of her shirt. When he looked at her pleadingly, she held up the little bottle and smirked. "Cocoa butter lubricant. Edible too—"

One long groan escaped him and Sara carefully scooted herself back down his torso, being careful not to snag his bobbing erection. Settling herself astride his lower thighs (endearingly bow-legged and powerful) she carefully poured some of the oil in her palms and rubbed them together to warm it.

Then she started on him.

Grissom was going out of his mind, purely and simply. All worries and concerns about Eternity and the Shop dissolved away under the slick talented strokes of Miss Chocolate's long fingers. The teasing dance of those digits along the insides of this thighs and along his legs was torture enough, but the fact that she only lightly brushed his cock was the worst sort of evil.

He told her so, in fairly earthy language, astonished at his own capacity for cursing; had anyone else heard him threatening and pleading this way, his monologue studded with four-letter words, he'd have denied it to his dying breath.

But Miss Chocolate had a way of bringing out the raw side of him at times, coaxing and teasing him in vile and delicious ways. At the moment she had him in her fist and was bending down, gently blowing a cool breath on the head of his erection.

"Damn it!"

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked innocently. Or as innocently as a semi-naked woman with a smirk could look. Grissom growled and thrust his hips up, trying for a little more friction; a tiny bit more stroke into her hand. She obliged by tightening her fingers around his thick shaft and he grunted with pleasure.

"No, Just ohh, like that . . . like that . . ." came his grateful gasp. Miss Chocolate obliged for a lovely few moments, the slickness of the cocoa oil making lovely lewd sounds in the quiet cabin. Grissom felt the heat roll down his stomach, his focus straining . . . straining . . . .

She stopped, releasing his erection and running her hands over his hips, rubbing her palms on them and humming. Grissom fought the urge to howl as his shaft bobbed a bit, throbbing and flushed, a glistening maroon against the dark crinkly nest of pubic hair.

"When I get free I'm going to abso-fucking-lutely kill you, Miss C—" he groaned. She pretended to pout and wrapped both hands back around his turgid shaft, stroking it very slowly and making him shudder under the bliss of pressure and glide.

"Just for that, I'm going to go extra slow. Too bad, because I'm getting really turned on here. I really, really would love to suck this bad boy, but if you're going to be mean---"

Grissom eyed her grimly, trying to focus, but losing concentration as his hips betrayed him and began to rock in counter rhythm to the caress of Miss Chocolate's slick palms. "Frango . . . I—I don't know how much more--"

"Mmm, me either. Let's play nice—" she murmured, and shifted herself. Very carefully Miss Chocolate dropped on all fours over him and crawled up his body, angling herself so that the hot ridge of Grissom's shaft slid along the juicy cleft of her sex. He wasn't in her, no; the sensitive underside of his shaft rested between her wet petals, and his thrusts slid along the valley of her cleft.

Miss Chocolate lightly nibbled his neck and began rocking against him, her breath hot along his sensitive skin. Grissom panted. No friction, just smooth searing strokes now, the weight of her body pressing down, and the thrilling little stiffness of her bud against his erection . . . slick and hot and building . . .

He strained against his bonds, trapped and achingly hard now, wanting to grab her perfect ass and thrust harder, but unable to. She pushed back, hips arching to increase the pressure, her hard nipples rubbing on his chest. "Ohhhyeaaaaahhh, love to plaaayyy—"

"Fuuckk—" Grissom hoarsely panted, lost in the sensation of Miss Chocolate riding him this way, this sex but not fucking, so good and evil at the same time---the pressure building up in his testicles was urgent now, hot and inevitable . . .

"C-Comingggg—" Miss Chocolate gasped, her fingers under his shoulders digging in as she dropped her head and flexed hard against him. Grissom felt her body tense and the sudden wetness of her climax against his shaft set him off in a series of hard, bucking thrusts that nearly bounced her off of him with their intensity, the heated jets of his semen gushing between their bodies.

When he could breathe again, countless minutes later, Grissom turned his head to face the woman draped over him like a limp towel. She reached up and wiped away the perspiration from his forehead, then pulled herself up to kiss him deeply.

Grissom gave into her tongue, and sighed when Miss Chocolate pulled away. "I thought it was all about me," he ever so gently accused through a smile.

She laughed, and licked his chin. "Sorry. Playing with the Peppermint stick made me horny as hell, and since you were tied up, I figured you wouldn't mind---"

"--You," he sighed happily, "Can play with my Peppermint stick anytime."

00oo00oo00

Michael J. Keppler AKA Mike TeeVee, electronics expert and gadgeteer for the Candy Shop drove up along the dusty road leading to Eternity. He had Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor playing through the radio of the dilapidated truck; the richness of the music a sharp contrast to the appearance of the vehicle. As the overlapping crescendos of music rolled out, the truck reached the locked gates. Slowing, Mike turned and parked, abruptly shutting off the engine.

The music disappeared too, and for a moment the only sound was the hot, dry wind gusting over the dry land and whistling through the fence. Mike closed his eyes and concentrated; faintly under the whistle he heard the hum of the fence itself.

A deadly little noise.

He climbed out slowly, stretching stiffness out of his long limbs, and reached back for the tool box that had been resting on the passenger seat. Mike shifted from his left to his right, and closed the truck door, the slam of it loud in the solitude. He looked around, letting his sharp gaze take in everything from his shoes to the horizon, sweeping in a complete circle.

Nobody else was anywhere near; the highway was ten miles back from the overgrown, rutted road leading to Eternity, and the mirage-inducing shimmer of mid-day heat made his entire line of vision dance slightly. He wiped his forehead with his arm and trudged to the gate, anxious to be out of the sun. As he approached the gate, he fished in his breast pocket for the passkey; a plain black plastic card with no embossing or design element of any kind on it.

Mike lifted the protective hood that covered the card reader and swiped it through in one swift motion, then flipped it over and swiped it again. The reader hummed for a moment, then the tiny screen on the top of it lit up in bright green. A low, mechanical voice spoke up. "Wel-come back to Eternity, Nonpareil."

The gates unhitched and rolled open smoothly; Mike stepped through and looked down Main Street as memories flashed through his mind in a quick rush of remembered images and sensations. For a long moment he stood rooted, blinking as he took in the weather-beaten buildings and rutted road before him. The hot, dry wind brought the scent of dried grass and sun baked dirt, and finally he shifted, amused at his sense of frustrated pride.

Eternity. His masterpiece.

All too clearly he could remember the last conversation with Miss Lollipop, her beautiful voice spinning out the truth, harsh and hard.

"_You're an obsessive/compulsive, Michael. The drive of your disorder is now fixating on Eternity, and it's getting in the way of your real work. For your own health I'm sending you out of state and away from the Gauntlet for a while."_

"_But it's nearly perfect; I've just got a little more tweaking to do here and there. Nothing big; just minor adjustments—"_

"_Michael, you haven't slept in two days, nor shaved in a week. All you've ingested is coffee, and you've going to crash, very hard and very soon. As your doctor, I'm ordering you out to DC."_

"_H-How long?"_

"_Until you regain some perspective. That will be up to you."_

He'd been in DC ever since, coming back once a year to run a full diagnostic and do maintenance on his creation, and each time it was getting easier to look at her as the tool she was. A cunning, intricate beautiful tool, but when you got right down to it, The Eternity Gauntlet was just another diagnostic device.

With guns.

And flamethrowers.

And trapdoors and moveable walls and gas vents and any number of unexpected tricks to throw an agent's concentration off. Theoretically none of them were supposed to hurt the Runner, but then again, the intensity level was generally kept on the lowest level for first timers, and boosted up for more experienced agents.

And Mr. Peppermint . . . well, he was a very experienced agent.

Mike walked up Main Street, the toolbox dangling from his hand and smiled.

00oo00oo00

Up on deck, the tiny hibachi grille sizzled, and the heavenly scent of teriyaki scented smoke drifted up along the mast of the _Boston Bohemian_. Sara stretched out on the canvas chaise lounge and smiled at Mr. Peppermint, who was expertly basting the pineapple, green pepper and salmon shish kabobs. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he was barefoot, the gentle breeze stirring his hair.

Sara flexed her bare toes. "So---now that we're allll relaxed, talk to me about this Gauntlet thing."

"Oh so that was your cunning and evil plan—torture my tension away . . ." he murmured, shooting her a look of exasperated affection. "Devious woman."

"Intrinsic to our natures, and you're evading the point—if we have to do this thing together, I'd like to know what we're up against."

Mr. Peppermint clacked his tongs at her, and hung them on the side of the grille. He came over to the lounge and sat near her feet, his hands clasped and dangling between his knees as he spoke. "When Miss L recruited you, what did she say about the Gauntlet?"

Sara concentrated a moment, trying to dredge up the memory of those early conversations. She pulled her sunglasses up and parked them on top of her head. "Ummm, she said that I'd be evaluated on a yearly basis, and that it would be divided between written tests and physical ones, and that the chief physical one would be a one day stamina/endurance test that I'd be briefed on before I took it."

"That was it?" Mr. Peppermint demanded, a brief smile crossing his mouth. Sara nodded.

"Pretty much."

"And you weren't . . . curious?"

"I was curious—but the whole Candy Shop concept was already so overwhelming that I put it to the back of my mind because it was only a part of everything else . . . " Sara protested weakly because Mr. Peppermint's hand was sliding up her bare leg towards the edge of her shorts. He grinned at her reaction.

"Still a little sensitive?"

"Attuned to your touch, which needs to move back into safe zones, buddy," she warned.

"Ah, but the danger zones are so much more fun—"

"You're just intrigued because you know I'm not wearing underwear."

"Ree-ally?" he purred, leaning forward, definitely more interested now. Sara laughed and pressed a hand to the middle of his chest.

"Whoa, whoa—your bobs are burning—"

'My—oh!" Mr. Peppermint shifted and rose, heading back to the hibachi and rescuing dinner.

Once they were settled in on the lounge, plates and napkins in hand, Mr. Peppermint spoke up again as he carefully tugged the food off the skewer. "The Eternity Gauntlet is a sort of obstacle course/shooting gallery/danger room created by a friend of mine. He was recruited into the Candy Shop about two years before I was, and Miss Lollipop put him to work on it early on."

"He built it?' Sara asked.

Mr. Peppermint nodded. "Designed and put it together from the underground up. To say Mike is a devious, cunning, brilliantly twisted genius is underestimating the man—the Gauntlet is a crowning achievement, and one of the key tools in keeping agents qualified at the Shop. I've run it three times, and each session has been . . . intense."

His tone had changed, and Sara looked up from nibbling on a chunk of pineapple, concerned. "Are you worried?"

"I'm not worried; I'm concerned," he told her softly. Sara wrinkled her nose at him.

"Isn't that kind of the same thing?"

He smiled at her.

They ate, not talking for a while and simply enjoying the quiet peacefulness of the oncoming night across the marina. Out on the water a few fish jumped, their splashes carrying over the rippling surface of the water. Sara carefully set her plate aside, feeling pleasantly full. She felt Mr. Peppermint's arm slide around her and pull her closer to him; in response she wrapped an arm around him as well.

He kissed her temple. "This is good. This is very good."

"Yes," she agreed.

When the first stars finally peeped through the darkness, Mr. Peppermint spoke again, his voice low and thoughtful. "This is worth fighting for, Sara. It's why I know we have to do more than just run the Gauntlet, we have to win it."

Sara turned her head and met his gaze, taking a moment to enjoy his solemn expression. "So we'll win it. "

Mr. Peppermint cocked his head. "By . . . any means?"

The gleam in his eyes; cunning and cold made her draw in a breath, but she nodded, and tightened her arm around him.

"By every means. Twice the brainpower, double the deviousness, right?"

He cupped her chin and kissed her, hard and hungrily.


	2. Chapter 2

Jelly Bean wandered into the lab; from his basket under one of the tables, Grenadine hopped out and wandered over, wagging his plumy tail happily and receiving a kind pat in return. Jelly Bean picked up the dog, and Grenadine allowed it, blinking a bit myopically as he was carried around.

"What's cooking?" Jelly Bean asked Gum Drop, who was masked and gloved, working over a series of beakers and flasks. Gum Drop sighed dramatically.

"I'm working on a private project, if you don't mind. Aren't you supposed to be doing something right now? Conning old ladies or picking pockets?" came the snappish question.

Jelly Bean shook his head. "Nope. I'm on stand-by for Licorice and Jaw Breaker while they keep an eye on Senator Braun. What's the project?"

"None of your business. Look, I realize you're bored, but hanging over my shoulder like a pirate's parrot isn't going to benefit either one of us, okay? So just take yourself, and the little dog too, and go . . . play down on the firing range or something," Gum Drop grumbled. Jelly Bean drew himself up and looked mildly offended; a look that was wiped away by a few enthusiastic face licks from Grenadine.

"Fine. I can take a hint."

"Sometimes I wonder—" came the retort. "Although you are getting better."

Jelly Bean didn't deign to answer, and carried Grenadine with him out to the hallway of the Shop, muttering darkly under his breath. "As if I really wanted to know about what it was. Right, dog?"

Grenadine wagged his tail and licked Jelly Bean's chin affectionately again. They moved towards the far end of the hall and reached the double doors of the firing range. Jelly Bean set the dog down and pushed his way through, listening carefully. There was a sound, but it wasn't that of gunfire; this was more of a 'zing'. Intrigued, Jelly Bean sauntered over to find out what made that sort of noise. Moving carefully, he looked into the stalls and spotted a familiar back.

Mr. Peppermint.

He was cranking something that looked like it had a fishing reel on the side of it, and Jelly Bean knocked on the glass booth door to get his attention. Mr. Peppermint spotted him and waved; Jelly Bean opened the booth and stepped in. "So—getting some practice in?"

"Yes."

"Not with a gun though, right?"

"No."

"So—what is it?"

"It's a zip line shot," Mr. Peppermint explained patiently. "A device for establishing a zip wire from one point to another, usually over height."

Jelly Bean nodded; he remembered them from Boy Scouts, although they were usually the sort of thing used in wilderness treks, not firing ranges. "So . . . you're planning some sort of jungle expedition?"

Mr. Peppermint didn't answer. He finished recoiling the unit and cocked the hammer of the gun launcher once more. Jelly Bean looked up towards the ceiling of the range. A thick bale of compressed plastic was there with a bulls eye target painted on it. Two gaping holes were within the second ring out from the center; as he watched, Mr. Peppermint aimed and fired. The bolt shot up, line flying out behind it. This shot was on the inside edge of the bulls eye.

"Nice shot."

"Thanks. I've been practicing. Fortunately, this is a stationary target, so it's much easier," Mr. Peppermint murmured. "Was there something you wanted, Greg?"

"Yeah—do you know anything about a bar called the Moon Glow?"

Mr. Peppermint paused and looked over his shoulder at the younger man, a perplexed expression on his face. "The Moon Glow? You're not planning on going there are you? Especially after dark—it's not safe."

"What's the big deal about this bar? First Warrick and Nick come back lumped up, and I get the lecture from them, and now you don't sound thrilled either. According to the dossier on Ecklie he does there once in a while, so it can't be that rough a place---"

"Ecklie's never there for long, and only goes when it relates to a job, Greg—" As he spoke, Mr. Peppermint tugged the thin cable taut and pressed a small button on the topside of the gun. With a faint hum, the line dropped from the target and the length of it fell to the range cement floor.

Startled, Jelly Bean stared at it. "How'd you do that?"

"There's an optic thread in the center that controls the actions of the hooks. I can open them, widen them or release them depending on how I press. I repeat though—you don't want to spend time in the Moon Glow—it's dangerous."

"I've been in bar fights. I can hold my own, " Jelly Bean pointed out with faint exasperation. "Miss L didn't hire me just for my pretty face."

The look that Mr. Peppermint shot him was so dry that Jelly Bean broke into a grin. "I have a nice body too, you know."

"I know no such thing. What I DO know is that the clientele of the bar in question have been known to eat a lot of steak tartare."

At the mention of 'steak' Grenadine barked happily. Both men looked down; the dog sat up and begged.

Jelly Bean sighed. "Now look what you did—had to use the 's' word, didn't you? This means he's going to sulk for the next two days—"

"Slip him one of the Slim Jims you keep in your locker and he'll be fine," Mr. Peppermint countered. "And Greg, I'm serious—the Moon Glow is the sort of place you don't go after dark and you don't go into without backup. Ten years ago the owner was convicted of eating a Gila Monster. Raw."

Greg flinched.

00oo00oo00

Mike came down stairs of the Desert Rose Saloon feeling refreshed. He'd slept well—in the former Madame's luxurious suite in fact—and was ready to start setting up the Gauntlet. Whistling, he trotted down along the sweeping curve and thought back to his dream of the night before.

It must have been inspired by the setting upstairs, because it had been far more salacious than any he'd had in ages, and the most exciting part was that a certain senator's daughter had been featured prominently in it. Mike found himself smiling at the memory of her, and hoped she was doing well. Since Miss L was with here that was a given, but still, he planned on calling a little later in the day if he got the chance.

Ah the dream—she'd look so good in the bunny outfit too, right down to the fuzzy tail . . . shaking away his lascivious thoughts, Mike moved to the bar of the Desert rose and stepped behind it. He moved to the far side and reached for a bottle on the shelf; Kessler whiskey. He pulled it forward and with a gentle click, the entire back wall of the bar swung open.

Mike stepped inside and spoke in his calm baritone. "Lights. Status report."

Instantly the lights went on, revealing a curved bank of monitors complete with labels under each. There was a master board with three chairs behind it, and Mike moved to the middle one, planting himself in it and crossing his hands behind his head. The voice began speaking again. "Current function—"

Mike cleared his throat and the voice died away; he spoke up gruffly. "Access voice recognition pattern stored in Keppler personal file, cell phone, authorization 005, listing for last three incoming calls. Simulate to match and continue."

He waited for a few minutes, busying himself with looking over the board, thinking quietly. Finally the voice began again, this time warmer and more familiar.

Catherine Willow's voice.

"Current function of Eternity Gauntlet is at one hundred percent. There are currently four levels of intensity available, and ten scenarios on file. Latest installments include gas jets and two hidden ramps. Last sweep of fence was at nineteen hundred hours yesterday. Objectives for the day?"

Mike smiled and looked at the monitors. "Set Gauntlet for scenario four, level two, with verbal override set to my voice."

A few little whirrs and clicks echoed in the room, followed by a quick set of chimes. Catherine's voice came back. "Scenario four set, level two, with verbal override. Are there any further instructions at this time?"

"Nah, I think we're good. Let's see how I do."

The voice echoed out, slightly seductive in tone. "Good luck, Nonpareil."

00oo00oo00

Miss Chocolate looked over the map, committing it to memory. The layout was simple; basic in terms of buildings and rooms, and she looked up at Grissom in confusion. "It's a western town."

"It's a bit more than a western town. It's six buildings filled with traps and tests—three on one side of the street, three on the other. On a level one scenario, a Runner is expected to make it through three of the buildings in a pre-selected pattern. On a level two scenario, a Runner is expected to make it through four, and on level three, a Runner is expected to do four, five OR all six, depending on the program."

Miss Chocolate sighed and sipped her coffee. "And you're expecting the worst, I take it?"

"I wouldn't put it past Mike to be under orders to make things difficult," Grissom agreed. "Just because he's a friend of mine doesn't mean we don't have some friendly competition going. I beat his official time on Eternity a few years back, and he never got the chance to take it again after that. He's not the kind to bear a grudge, but all the same—he's not going to make it easy."

"Gotcha," Miss Chocolate murmured. She was leaning over the table, dressed in a low-riding pair of faded black jeans and a short blue eyelet top with puffy sleeves; Grissom found the entire ensemble distracting in the best sort of way. He moved behind her and leaned over Miss Chocolate, brushing his lips against the side of her neck as he looked at the map.

"Some of the traps can't be shifted because they're built into the buildings."

"Like?" Miss Chocolate asked curiously.

Grissom pointed to the bank. "The First National has a vault with a dropping ceiling. If we get one of the scenarios that requires us to go to the bank, we'll have to search the vault for our token, and that means we'll be facing compression. The hydraulic is too big to shift, so that's one trap I know about."

He paused, and Miss Chocolate turned her head to look at him. She blinked and spoke softly. "Bad memories?"

Grissom pursed his mouth into a little 'O' and gave a reluctant nod. "I'm not claustrophobic, but being pinned down by a descending ceiling isn't something I want to go through again."

In sympathy, she gave a little backward grind against him, and Grissom's expression shifted to one of quick bliss. "On the other hand, being pinned between a descending ceiling and the firm, bouncy behind of a sex nymphet, well . . . there are worse ways to die."

"Nobody's going to die—" Miss Chocolate assured him with a wry grin. "At least not on the vault floor of the First National."

00oo00oo00

Gum Drop looked around carefully, then returned his stare to the little test tube in front of him. It was filled to a third, and the fluid within it was a lovely shade of glowing pink, and the degree of light displacement through it hinted at a viscosity close to syrup. Carefully, Gum Drop took his mask off and bent down to look at his creation, feeling a flush of delight.

There it was—his ninth attempt, and clearly far more stable than the previous ones. A thing of true beauty; a potential triumph; a key to happiness---his magnum opus----

"So . . . what is it?" came Jelly Bean's careless question. Startled, Gum Drop jumped back and nearly stumbled. He spun and glared, but in a fraction of a second paused, instead.

"It's . . . a new cologne. I got interested in pheromones a while back and thought I'd put my not inconsiderable biochemistry talents to good use," he commented silkily. "Just something to amuse myself."

"Cologne? Okay—" Jelly Bean commented, staring at the tube. "—it wouldn't have been my first guess, but whatever your little mad scientist brain comes up with is cool with me. Why is it pink?"

"That's part of the absorption agent that bonds with the body chemistry of the wearer—once you don this stuff it won't wear off until a good six hours or so," Gum Drop replied, eyeing Jelly Bean's neck for a moment. "Brings out the true essence of the man."

"Sounds promising."

"It is. I'd love to take it out for a test run, but I don't think the pharmacy counter at the veterinarian's office, or Mom's Senior Center are the ideal conditions for a surefire babe enslaver formula like this—" Gum Drop gave a fake sigh, hoping the man next to him would rise to the bait.

"Well, I could try it out . . . give you a full report on its efficacy, if you'd like . . . "

Some things were TOO easy, Gum Drop grinned inwardly. He pretended to hesitate, knowing that would set the hook. "I don't know . . . this stuff is pretty powerful. Maybe I should wait—"

"No, I'm your perfect subject! I'm going out to a bar tonight," Jelly Bean confided, "And this stuff would probably help break the ice, you know?"

Gum Drop gave in with a roll of his eyes. "Fine, fine—whatever. But I'm telling you, it's fairly potent, so be sparing with it. I'll fix you up with a sample bottle if you'll hold your horses a moment."

There were no bottles in the cabinet, and with an inward oath, Gum Drop stepped out to the supply closet, taking his formula with him. When he returned, he carefully poured a few ounces into a small amber bottle and handed it to Jelly Bean, then put the rest in a larger one. "Use it wisely, Greg—don't just splash it on like bathwater."

"Yeah, yeah—" Jelly Bean nodded, concentrating on the glow coming through the bottle. The pink through the amber made it a sort of orange pulsing light. "I'll treat it like it was radioactive." He scooped up the little container and tucked it into his breast pocket, flashed Gum Drop a quick mocking salute and sauntered off, whistling.

Gum Drop watched Jelly Bean's receding back and smiled, sardonically. "As well you should, Bean-O. This is going to be very . . . interesting."

He moved to pull a small cage of white mice from behind a set of shelves and peered into it.

The single male was still mating, although clearly exhausted. When done, he toppled off of his little partner; immediately the other three females in the cage circled around him chirping and nuzzling him. Gum Drop checked his watch, noting that the dose for test subject # 03 had only three minutes left until the formula wore off.

Gum Drop smirked—Love Potion #9 was looking better and better all the time.

00oo00oo00

Sam Vartann sighed. Portia Richmond had checked herself into the Luna spa for three days, dismissing him and Reggie for the next seventy two hours with an indulgent wave of her fingers. Had it been any other place Sam might have argued, but the Luna was run by a former under-chief of the Mossad; security was NOT an issue at the resort.

So after having dropped Portia off and into the hands of white-smocked attendants, nutritionists, masseuses and meditation gurus all under the watchful eye of David Goldstein, Sam drove the Bentley home and parked it in the garage, whistling in the quiet of a sunny mid-morning.

What to do with an unexpected holiday?

The rest of the household staff had taken the time off, and the mansion was deserted. The only sign of life was the hint of music coming from upstairs, and Sam grinned to himself, feeling a tremble of pleasure at the knowledge that Reggie was there waiting for him.

So perfect.

They'd come a long way so far; certainly he'd learned a hell of a lot about Reggie's luscious curves and gorgeous laugh in the last few weeks. They'd gone from being friends to being sweethearts in an easy, natural progression that thrilled him, and the culminating moment was now at hand.

He took a deep breath, willing a sense of calm. This was good. This was the fulfillment of exactly what they both wanted.

"Sam?" Breaking into his reverie, Reggie's voice called down to him from the top of the staircase. Sam looked up, eyes widening.

Reggie leaned over the wrought iron railing, her long red-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. She wore a black lacy bra and panties along with a matching garter belt, sheer smoky stockings and patent leather pumps.

Sam found himself halfway up the stairs with no memory of running up them. "Don't MOVE."

"What?" Reggie asked, her voice nervous. He clung to the curving rail, grinning up at her.

"Jesus you look hot, babe. I know we're supposed to take this slow, but I'm not exactly sure I can wait," he confessed thickly. This particular angle of looking at her had his pulse throbbing in his ears, and walking was a lot more uncoordinated than usual as Sam admired her curvy legs.

Admired being the acceptable form of 'lusted for.'

She giggled and held out a hand in his direction, beckoning him forward. "Come on—this outfit makes me feel like a complete hootchie."

"You bring class to hootchiness babe—" Sam chuffed, making it to the top of the stairs. Not easy to do, considering the hard-on he was sporting, and he gave himself credit for the effort.

Reggie stepped over to him, swinging her hips gently. "So—I think it's time we got this relationship consummated, don't you think?"

"I think I'm going to die if we don't," he told her balefully. "Indigo Orculus."

"Sam!" Reggie chided, sliding into his arms and pressing against him. "Not true and you know it. We've done lots of intimate things so far. You're a great teacher . . . tasty too—" she reminded him and licked his neck.

Sam slid his hands along her back, savoring the feel of her beautiful round curves. He nuzzled his pointed nose close to her ear and whispered. "Love you—lemme go prove it."

Gently he took Reggie's hand and led her to her bedroom, and the cool, quiet stillness there. She'd set a few vases of fresh flowers—carnations mostly, and a few roses—and a few fat candles burned on crystal dishes. The bed was turned down, revealing the green sheets dappled with tiny black fleur de lis.

They took their time, playing and enjoying the touch of skin to skin, laughing and whispering to each other as they stretched out on the bed. Sam moved gently, first stroking and caressing her entire body, calming them both as he did so.

So sweet, so ripe she was, his Reggie; pillowy and pliant and hot; her breasts responded to his kisses, and when those kisses trailed down her body, she shivered in anticipation. Lightly Sam untied her panties at each hip and tugged them off, leaving the curly garden of her gold brown fur framed by the black lace of the garter belt. "Oh yeah, absolutely beautiful, babe—" he muttered, feeling lightheaded.

Nothing he'd ever fantasized had ever looked this good. He bent to brush his mouth against the tickle of it, and Reggie moaned. The rich sweet perfume of her arousal made him throb harder, and Sam willed himself to relax a bit.

Gently, slowly, he kissed her, working his concentration on the slick rose of her cleft, sucking the petals and licking in deliberate strokes while Reggie writhed and shuddered under his caresses. When her breathing began to quicken, he tenderly slid a wet finger into her and kept licking, letting the slow stroke match that of his tongue.

Reggie cried out, a sweet pleasured sound and Sam felt her big frame shake hard, her body gripping his finger in her climax. The utter sexiness of her response had him tensing hard not to come himself, but he savagely willed himself to hold back, and let her shivers and cries fade away. When she was still, he kissed her inner thigh and shifted.

"Baby---" he groaned, looking down at her. Reggie lay across the rumpled sheets, her gorgeous breasts damp with a glow of sweat, her eyes wide and unfocused. Sam knelt down and lifted her full thighs. "Reggie—hon, I need you—"

She nodded. "Want you too, Sam—" came her husky, happy voice. He gripped his shaft and stroked the head along her cleft, then slowly pushed.

Sam groaned with pleasure, lost in the overwhelming rush of slick heat and throbbing pressure gripping him. Reggie gave a little whimper and slid her arms around his back as he leaned into her, shifting her stocking covered legs higher.

"Don't want . . . to hurt you, but . . . it probably will—" he grunted, feeling like the world's biggest bastard when his own words aroused him even more. Under him, Reggie gave a breathless laugh.

"I know . . . but . . . love you—" she told him, and slid her hands down to cup his sweaty flanks. She tugged, her nails stinging him slightly.

Sam closed his eyes and thrust, hard.


	3. Chapter 3

"Too much?" Sara asked anxiously as she turned around for him. Mr. Peppermint smiled, taking in her outfit with a gleam in his eye.

"Perfect. Utilitarian, flattering and comfortable—" He told her quietly. "Just the sort of thing for the Gauntlet."

Sara wore a pale cranberry tank top with black hip hugger jeans and a matching short jacket. Around her neck, she had a pendant made of a chunk of turquoise; on the jeans was a matching turquoise belt buckle. She nodded and looked at Mr. Peppermint, eyeing him critically.

He'd opted for belted khakis, and a button down white shirt open at the throat, no tie. His sleeves were rolled up on his forearms and he wore a watch on a thick leather band.

Both of them wore boots.

Mr. Peppermint checked the time and nodded. Wordlessly they left his apartment, riding down in the elevator and walking through the empty bookstore hand in hand. From the register counter, Porthos and Aramis looked sleepily up at them; Sara petted them both in passing, making them purr. Mr. Peppermint locked the door behind them, the 'closed' sign prominent.

In the predawn light, they drove out of Henderson and went west, following roads that became increasingly less maintained and populated. Behind them, the sun began to rise, and by the time they reached the gates of Eternity, day had come.

Mr. Peppermint had Sara pull over and climbed out of the car, taking his wallet out. He lifted the hood over the card reader and slid his card along the slot, flipping it over and repeating the action. Watching from the car, Sara noted a green glow reflecting off her partner's face before the gates began rolling open. She let herself shiver a bit, and waited until he was back in the passenger seat before she spoke. "Retina scan?"

"Not until we get to the Gauntlet itself. Mike's already here."

Sara put the car in gear and they drove slowly through the gates. She stared at the town, taking in the dusty dry buildings with a careful eye, noting the layout and matching it mentally to Mr. Peppermint's description. So far, everything seemed just as he'd described it: General Store, Livery Stable and Bank on the left side of the street, and Saloon, Hardware store and Church on the right hand side. Both sides had covered sidewalks and horse rails in front of them.

A genuine Western town.

"Pull up in the back of the Saloon—" Mr. Peppermint directed, motioning with his chin. Sara did, bringing the Miata alongside a rusted pickup truck, and a Rolls Royce Corniche. As they climbed out, Sara noticed the faint whistle of the wind, but other than that, a full and overwhelming quiet through the vast space of sky and desert around them.

She looked out, seeing endless hills of scrub desert, ringed distantly by fence, and felt slightly lost; out of place in the natural setting. A hand touched her shoulder and startled, she flinched. Mr. Peppermint spoke.

"Don't be spooked, honey. We need to keep our focus here, in Eternity."

"Right. Just . . . getting my bearings," she mumbled back, following him around the side of the saloon. They stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and kept moving, reaching the doors of the Desert Rose. Sara noted that cunningly hidden in the frame was a thermal sensor. Catching her glance, Mr. Peppermint nodded. He wrapped his hand around the ornate knocker, but instead of making it rap against the wood, he merely held it.

The knocker glowed briefly, scanning his print, and the door opened wide.

"Welcome, Mr. Peppermint," the voice purred out. He and Sara gave a startled look at each other, both recognizing it from their very first mission together. They stepped across the threshold of the saloon and looked around.

A long cherry wood bar stood against the far wall, complete with ornately framed painting above it of a reclining, nude Miss Lollipop, her more intimate physical features discreetly draped in a lace fringe shawl. Sara smirked; Mr. Peppermint gave an amused sigh and began to survey the rest of the room.

There were a few tables here and there with chairs; a few potted ferns, and several craps tables, along with a roulette wheel and a cashier's cage at along one wall. The wagon wheel chandeliers overhead weren't lit, but still gave the room ambience, as did the gleaming brass spittoons and Persian rugs scattered about on the polished wooden floor.

"Vegas, old-style," Sara murmured.

Grissom cocked his head, nodding but wary. "Styles change, but content remains the same. Duck—"

Instinctively Sara did, dropping down as a swift 'zing' passed through the space she'd been standing in. The heavy clatter of the wooden missile rattled out against the far wall, and she glared at the Cigar Store Indian statue that had fired it in her direction.

A chuckle filled the room, and it wasn't Mr. Peppermint's. As he helped her up, another man came down the staircase near the bar, his hands in his pockets. He sauntered over to them, smiling. "It wouldn't have hurt, you know. I made the cigars out of pine, and set it at a pretty slow speed—still, good reflexes, Miss Chocolate is it?"

Politely he held out his hand; Sara took it, her annoyance fading in the calm admiration in the man's eyes. He gave her a firm shake. "I'm Nonpareil, sometimes known as Mike Teevee." He reached out and shook Mr. Peppermint's hand firmly, "—Grissom."

"Mike."

"So what gave it away?" Mike asked with interest.

Grissom cocked his head. "Faint tick of the gearworks. I'd been listening for it since we walked in, and since the Grandfather clock isn't here, nor is the cuckoo, I figured it had to be the Indian."

"Memory like a damned bear trap," Mike muttered admiringly. "Always did have the chops. We'll see if we can't put you through some serious paces this time, Sport."

"I have no doubt you will. But it's 'us' this time," Mr. Peppermint corrected softly.

Mike nodded. "Yes, so I've been informed. The VIPs are upstairs, ready to monitor the Run, by the way—no pressure."

"Bread and circuses," Sara muttered sweetly. "Always a thrill to be a dancing monkey."

"Nah, it's not like that," Mike assured her. "They're here to make sure it's a fair test—that I haven't set any trap that wasn't listed on my manifest—and to make sure the quality and safety controls are in place. Sure the Run's going to be hard on you two, but it's also going to be safe and fully orchestrated."

"Mmm hmmm, " Sara murmured back, not fully convinced. She looked over at Mr. Peppermint, who was staring at the bar painting, his expression amused.

"Has our fearless leader seen this . . . new addition to the decor?"

Mike's grin broadened. "Not yet—she'll be getting the delayed feed later today . . . ought to be a nice little surprise for her."

"You live dangerously," Mr. Peppermint muttered under his breath. Sara smirked again.

00oo00oo00

He opened his eyes, in the darkness, feeling excessively warm.

And achy.

Achy in his man places, to be exact. Normally this was a good sign, indicating excellent sex earlier; a badge of honor to be tolerated with a satisfied grin and a few wonderful memories.

Given the degree of ache through his loins, he was going to have some pretty incredible memories then—

Gingerly he shifted, trying to ease the pressure. Full bladder along with muscle strain . . . time to hit the john . . . He rolled over and was about to sit up when the arm around his waist tightened.

He grinned a little. "Hey babe . . . gotta let me use the bathroom . . ."

A little snuffly growl, and the arm withdrew, reluctantly. He rose up, scratching his head, feeling absurdly proud of himself for the moment, then shuffled off towards the dark doorway and found the facilities in the dark.

Once done, he flushed and turned to the sink to wash his hands, fumbling for the light switch. The bathroom flooded with brilliance, and he blinked, staring at the reflection in the mirror in front of him.

Lanky torso welted with pink scratches, disheveled sandy blonde hair, big brown eyes—

Completely . . . unfamiliar.

He leaned forward, examining the face that did the same in the glass. He spoke. "My name is . . . "

Nothing came to mind. He blinked. After a second, he tried again. "I know who I am. I'm . . . "

Frowning, he rinsed his hands and dried them, then went back out to the bedroom, searching for his pants. His attention was immediately distracted from his quest by the sight of not one body, but two clearly distinct forms huddled under the covers, and he grinned at his own prowess.

"--That explains the ache," he mumbled to himself, unable to hold back a smirk. Carefully he began searching the bedroom floor, trying not to make too much noise.

A jeweled thong . . . An acrylic five inch platform high heel . . . a ball gag . . . pair of jeans. Grabbing them, he fished in the pockets, turning up a wallet and flipping to the driver's license quickly, eyeing it in the semi-darkness.

"David Phillips . . . " He read aloud, a sickening sense of dread hitting his stomach as he realized the photo didn't look at all like the man he'd seen in the mirror.

00oo00oo00

Sugar Daddy set his book down with a sigh; this always happened right when he was getting to the exciting parts. Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot would have to wait while he answered his phone. Flipping it open, he sighed. "Hello?"

"Yo, It's me. Just wondering if you can come and relieve us until Jelly Bean gets here, man. I wouldn't ask, but he's two hours overdue."

"You tried all his numbers?" Sugar Daddy asked automatically, looking for a bookmark. He absently stuck a receipt for Waffle World to mark his place as the reply came back.

"Cell and home both, and paged him every half hour for the last two, yeah. Despite his personality, he's not the kind to flake out; not from work," Licorice murmured. "Since Miss L's out of town, I'm just going down the chain of command here."

"No, no, you did right, 'Rick, letting me know. I'll be there in about ten minutes. Let me cover a few bases first," Sugar Daddy murmured softly. "I'm sure he's fine, and we'll all take turns yelling at him once he shows up, okay? How's the Senator at the moment?"

"Watching some cooking show . . . we got a chance to tap into his last few calls and he's planning on making some news conference tomorrow, so if Miss L's got something up her sleeve she ought to spring it soon," Licorice snorted.

"I hear you. Be there in ten. Let me know if Greg contacts you."

After hanging up, Brass took a moment to contact Henry and pass on a quick order. "Pull up Jelly Bean's chip code and plug it in. Hook it to my GPS."

"Yes sir—authorization code?"

"A2, Brass. Classified. Thanks, Henry."

After that, he hit a speed dial button and smiled into the receiver at the sound of a melodious voice at the other end. "Hey, Doll."

"Jim. What news?"

"Good and bad . . . looks like the senator is about to go public with his missing daughter, so you might want to cut him off at the pass sometime today."

"Good to know, thank you. And the bad news?" Lady Heather murmured sweetly, tingeing even the most mundane of conversation with a hint of smut. Sugar Daddy sighed.

"Jelly Bean's gone missing. He was supposed to relieve the watch on the senator and didn't show. I took it on myself to activate his chip, so we'll find our boy pretty quick, though."

"That's very unlike him—at least when he's not on vacation."

"Agreed. You don't think Eiger made him, do you?" Sugar Daddy asked softly. "Recognized him somehow?"

Before Miss Lollipop could reply, the beep of another call coming in sounded. Murmuring a quick, "Hang on—" Sugar Daddy switched over.

Henry spoke up in a slightly worried tone. "There's no record of a chip implantation for Jelly Bean, sir, and no code on file. I've looked twice now, and nothing's there."

"Ohh boyyy—" With a sigh, Sugar Daddy switched back to Miss Lollipop and relayed the news. She made a concerned little sound.

"I can't think of how that got overlooked . . . unless he hacked in and took the number out."

"That sounds like him, unfortunately," Sugar Daddy grunted. "But he'd need help, and if that's the case, then it's time for Gum Drop to answer a few questions. I'll take care of it on this end. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and that thing I'm not supposed to say to you while we're on duty? Consider it said."

"And back at you, doubled," Miss Lollipop murmured shyly.

00oo00oo00

The three of them sat at one of the tables in the Desert Rose.

"So, you'll start in the middle of Main street. You'll have two minutes to open the envelope and make for the building listed in it. Each building has one to three traps in it, and you're on a timer in each one—"

"—Is there any area where we aren't timed?" Miss Chocolate asked in annoyance. Grissom smirked as Mike Teevee shrugged.

"Main Street. That doesn't have any timers."

"No, it's got an ADS system, or sticky foam or a water cannon trained on it," Grissom replied slowly. "An agent's got to deal with a constant barrage of distractions, right Mike?"

"Don't spoil all the surprises—" the other man protested through a small grin.

Grissom shot him a knowing look and then turned to Miss Chocolate, moving his chair closer to her. "Are you prepared?"

"As I'll ever be," she responded gently, smiling at him. "Time to start."

The three of them rose up; Mike pulled a remote from his pocket and pressed a button. Immediately, part of the counter of the bar slid back, revealing a large display of devices under it. Intrigued, Miss Chocolate and Grissom came forward to examine them.

"Generally an agent is permitted one weapon while running the Gauntlet. These are modified to work with the sensor system used here, so they don't fire real bullets or projectiles, only light rays," Mike explained.

"So it's all a gigantic laser tag game?" Miss Chocolate murmured cheekily. Grissom winced, but Mike took no offense, and nodded.

"In a way—although this is designed as a test, there's no point in maiming or killing agents in order to evaluate them. Don't think that means it's easy, or that you won't need a weapon though—" came the warning. "Pick any one here you like."

Miss Chocolate took her time, picking a few weapons up and setting them down again, considering carefully. Finally she settled on a small, sleek handheld device housed in a Beretta casing.

She held it up and looked at Mike, who nodded. "Excellent choice. And you, Mr. Peppermint?"

Without hesitation, Grissom reached for the Luger and shoulder holster; Mike Teevee cocked an eyebrow at him, not saying a word. He pressed a button on the remote and the bar slid closed again with a small hum.

The three of them walked out of the Desert Rose and into the middle of Main Street, where the bright sunlight made all three of them blink. Miss Chocolate tucked her Beretta inside her jacket; Grissom slipped the shoulder holster on, Luger in place.

Mike Teevee cleared his throat. "All right. I have your envelope, which I'll hand to you at eight o'clock on the dot. However, first I need to make a quick security check . . . " So saying, he pulled long rectangular bar from his pocket and flipped a switch on it. It beeped, and settled into a hum. Mike waved it over Grissom, up and down his arms, along his ribs and over his legs with no notable result.

Then he waved it over Miss Chocolate. As the scanner swung over her turquoise necklace, it bleeped alarmingly. Mike stopped it and looked at her patiently. With a little smirk, she reached up and undid the necklace, handing it over to him. Mike turned the pendant over, revealing the hidden compartment with the small Swiss Army knife in it. He sighed.

"Nice try—you do get points for trying to beat the system before the Run starts, Miss Chocolate . . ."

"Thanks. I don't suppose it's possible for me to, say, get that back?"

Mike shook his head even as he grinned. "Not until after the Run, I'm afraid. All right, here's your envelope with your route. Time to beat is fifty-seven minutes. Once you enter a building, you'll be watched, heard and recorded, so don't do anything you wouldn't want recorded for posterity, okay? I'll be with our VIPS, watching, so when you hear the bell, you can open the envelope." He paused. "Good luck."

Mike walked towards the Desert Rose, and Grissom shifted closer to Miss Chocolate, his whisper low. "Nice try with the knife—sorry it got confiscated."

"That's okay . . . there's another one in my belt buckle," she replied very softly.

Grissom smiled. "I do so love you and your devious ways, Miss Chocolate."

00oo00oo00

He didn't speak Italian—at least, he thought it was Italian that the two girls were murmuring at him. Both of them had long curly hair and figures that made his mouth go dry, but despite the distraction of those charms, communication seemed to be a no-go.

The blonde had thrown off the covers and was beckoning him with one crooked finger; parts of him were sitting up and begging at the sight of her.

But now wasn't the time. Aside from the matter of aching, this loss of identity was unnerving. There were no other men in the bedroom, so clearly the pants and ID had to be his, but the inability to reconcile the face on the license and the one in the mirror bothered him.

He tried again, planting a hand on his chest. "Who . . . am I?"

"WhoamI?" the blonde echoed while the other one giggled. She added, "Venuto qui—"

"No, no, not right now . . . I've already lost enough skin to you two . . . I think," he replied uncertainly. Both women giggled, and the brunette slid out of the bed, sauntering over to him, her hands held out to take his.

"Come bahk to bed, Caro . . . it's earh-ly yet, and you neeeeed your rest . . . " she murmured sweetly, stepping closer and nuzzling him. He gulped a little, not nearly as focused as before.

"Oooohhh, tempting as that offer is, and believe me it's . . . tempting—I can't help but think that I've got a few places to go . . "

The brunette pouted; the blonde's lower lip quivered in disappointment.

He hesitated.

What the heck . . . a few more hours . . . a little rest, and his memory was sure to come back. And in the meantime . . .

". . . but I don't want to be rude . . . just rushing off . . ."

"Bravo . . ." the brunette giggled, and licked his ear before leading him back to the bed.

00oo00oo00

"It was just . . . one of those things! Greg never liked the whole chip idea, and he didn't think it was going to matter—" Gum Drop blurted, running a hand through his dark, spiky hair. "He offered to do me a few favors, and I told him I'd take his chip number out of the system in return. It didn't seem like a big deal—"

Sugar Daddy sat patiently next to Gum Drop, the two of them in a small van advertising 'Perfect Puppy Pet Groomers" in large pink letters. In smaller ones underneath it added, "we make house calls.'

"See, that was your first mistake—listening to Greg. Your second one was in assuming it didn't matter. Now, you and I are sitting in a cooped up van having a discussion I'm sure you really, really regret."

"Y-yes sir."

"And the way you're going to make amends is to find that chip number and give it to Henry. We have an agent out there who's missing, and while I'm going to give him twenty-four hours to show up, any advantage in locating him—such as reading his chip—is going to go a long way in making me happy. And you do remember why you want to make me happy, right Gum Drop?"

"Be-cause you kill people for a living," came the choked reply.

"That's right. So I want you to take Grenadine back to the shop and get working on that purged number right away."

With that, he handed Gum Drop a leash and pulled the van door open. Miserably the younger man stepped out, clutching the silky, pink ribboned dog. Gum Drop set Grenadine down and quickly walked him to the waiting car, panic quickening his steps.

From inside the van, Sugar Daddy watched impassively, then slid the door shut.


	4. Chapter 4

The livery of Eternity was a good-sized building, and deceptively quiet as Sara and Mr. Peppermint entered it side by side through the double doors. A sweet, musty scent of warm hay drifted out, along with the soft odor of sun bleached wood and a faint trace of horse sweat. Sara tensed, looking around in a quick scan.

Mr. Peppermint took in a deep breath. "Would you believe that Mike actually stables horses here part of the year to get the smell just right? I try to take details to the tenth degree; Mike goes to the hundredth."

"Potential death here—" Sara growled back, not relaxing an inch.

Mr. Peppermint gave a nod and looked at his watch. He counted aloud, "Four, three, two, one—"

The livery doors swung closed behind them silently. Sara spun, and darted over to them, giving a push that did nothing to budge them. Mr. Peppermint didn't bother glancing back. "He's scrupulously fair, so things won't happen until we're officially inside the stable. We're locked in now, so, let's look for our clue, shall we?"

Mr. Peppermint took three steps into the stable, looking alert, his gaze sweeping around the large open area. A blacksmith's anvil stood against the brick wall along the back, near the cold fireplace. To the right were various stalls, all empty, and above them a hayloft filled with sweet-smelling mown hay.

Off to the right was a small corral with a roll top desk and a stool; clearly the stable manager's meager office. Sara glanced at it, and made a move to step closer. Mr. Peppermint shook his head. "Look first—overhead, underfoot all around."

She did, and noticed the nearly invisible filament line a few inches up from the dirt floor, stretched across the little opening to the corral, right a tripping level. "Oh. Nasty."

"Look up," Mr. Peppermint commanded, and she did, noting that the line ran up along the wall and was tied to the heavy bale of hay perched just on the edge of the loft overhead. An quick curse flew out of her, and her partner smirked as Sara carefully stepped back. "It would have hurt, but it wouldn't have killed you; nevertheless, better to play it safe. I'm betting we need to look at that desk, so let's see what other traps are in place."

Sara looked around the little corral area more closely, noting a woven Navajo rug under the desk, and a messy pile of papers on the surface. She shot Grissom a sidelong glance and he nodded. At his assurance, she stepped over the tripwire and moved closer to the desk as he leaned on the edge of the corral and looked on. Sara eyed the roll top carefully, then studied the papers. "Oh how cute---a bill to Sam Braun for stabling his horse, a receipt for two wagonloads of hay, and an inventory list for tack, although it seems odd to me . . . "

"Liveries hired horses and not just wagons," Mr. Peppermint pointed out.

Sara nodded impatiently, but picked up the list. "Oh I know that, but I don't think a sidesaddle was a common item for a western town."

"Good catch," Mr. Peppermint murmured, and smiled. He glanced at the list she held up to him. "So—what makes a sidesaddle stand out in context of where we are right now?"

"They were for ladies," Sara responded promptly.

Mr. Peppermint nodded, speaking softly. "They weren't commonplace in the Old West; a few had two pommels; they were left-sided—"

"This desk has drawers on the left side—" Sara pointed out with an arch of one eyebrow.

Mr. Peppermint met her gaze and shifted, coming into the corral and squatting down by the desk. "That's a leap of faith—still--let's see what might be in them."

There were three drawers stacked vertically, and Sara noted that the bottom one was slightly ajar. Mr. Peppermint noted it too, and fished along his ankle, drawing out a long knife.

"How the hell—" Sara breathed, "—did you get that by the metal detector?"

"Not metal, ceramic, " Mr. Peppermint replied with a roguish grin, holding it up. "I won't get away with it next time, but right now is the only time that matters, right?"

Carefully he worked the white flecked blade into the open crack and used it to pull the drawer open. It was empty except for a small silver key on the bottom. Sara began to reach for it, but Mr. Peppermint shook his head. He lowered the blade of the knife into the drawer and touched the key; instantly two hidden wire bars snapped shut on it like a bear trap, catching the blade between them.

Mr. Peppermint sighed reached around the trap, picking up the key. With a careful yank he tugged the knife free of the metal bars while Sara winced, thinking how painful that trap would have been on her fingers or wrist. "First rule of the gauntlet—if it looks uncomplicated, it's not."

"So I'm learning—" Sara muttered.

Mr. Peppermint tossed her the key and resheathed his knife. He looked up and around the ceiling of the barn, and focused on a small mud swallow nest in one corner, playfully shaking his finger at it. "Not nice, Mike—although I'll admit I'm glad you didn't use the one with the spikes."

In the Control Room of the Desert Rose, Mike TeeVee smirked, shaking his head at the screen. "That one wasn't set for you, it was set for her," he replied, even though he knew Grissom couldn't hear him.

In the comfortable chair next to him, Mr. Sugar gave a low chuckle of admiration. "So far so good—is there anything else in the livery to trip them up?"

Mike nodded and crossed his arms behind his head. "Plenty."

00oo00oo00

The two girls chattered in Italian as all three of them showered and dressed. He was clean, and the clothes from the floor fit, so it was a safe bet that they were his, but the disturbing matter of the wallet bothered him as he chewed on the Pop tarts the girls offered him. "Grazie."

He wasn't David Phillips of 353 North Mesa Road; anyone with half an eye could see he didn't match the photo or stats on the driver's license at all. A search through the pockets of his clothing turned up a few other interesting items including a set of lockpicks, a card for a Singing Chicken Telegram service, a ring of keys and a little empty amber bottle. He'd sniffed it and it smelt pretty nice, so he dabbed the remaining droplets along his jaw line, wondering if it was homemade cologne.

Then the girls came back to kiss him goodbye before they went to work, and somehow the kisses got longer and more frantic, one thing leading to another, and suddenly they were all back in bed.

It was a damned good thing he had stamina, even if he didn't have a name, he mused.

00oo00oo00

Catherine looked over at Heather and slowly shook her head in amazement. The two of them were sitting in a little waterfront restaurant, nursing fancy cocktails instead of tea, and looking out over the Atlantic. The waitress had already taken their orders, and in the interim Heather had talked. First hypothetically, and then with gradual references of a more concrete nature. Catherine listened, and made a few quick leaps of logic.

It was a conversation on several levels, one of which was strictly intuitive, and Catherine felt less surprise with each revelation. Carefully she reached for her drink. "So Mike, Mr. Peppermint, the one who played his wife—they all work for you?"

Heather nodded slowly. "You could say that. I run the operation, but in reality they're all working for themselves to a certain degree. It's not your average agency."

"I BET. So—they all met you . . . professionally?"

This was a delicate area, and Heather kept her gaze steady. Catherine saw the answer in the other woman's eyes and sighed, taking a sip of her drink.

"Catherine . . ." Heather murmured gently, setting her glass down, "You've been in political circles long enough to know not only how the game is played, but how crooked it is as well. Not just in a town like Washington, but all across the country. For all the good that our legal system manages, there is always a percentage of tragedy, of injustice that is never corrected. It's a niche that nobody else wants to deal with and the one most prone to exploitation."

"The one that hurts the most," Catherine nodded sagely. "The level from which my father pulls his . . . victims."

Heather said nothing, but the quick purse of her mouth spoke volumes, and for a moment both women were silent. Abruptly, Catherine pulled herself forward and folded her arms on the table, her gaze sharp. "I want in."

"I beg your pardon?" But Heather was smiling as she said it, and the other woman pressed harder.

"Listen, you never would have told me any of this if you didn't expect something out of it, and I wasn't born yesterday. You either want my contacts or my skills—maybe both."

"Both," Heather admitted. "Washington is a nerve center for the nation, and having someone on the inside of the social circles would be a tremendous benefit. The only downside of course, is your father."

Catherine looked down into her drink and idly stirred it. "He's . . . dangerous. I've suspected it for years—you know that—but this last couple of months have really opened my eyes. If he takes a fall, he might take me and my daughter with him."

Heather shook her head slowly. "Not necessarily. My agency has been compiling evidence against him for a while now, and we've got more than enough to force him into an early retirement if we leak it to the right sources."

"So why haven't you?" came the aggrieved question.

Heather leaned forward, and looked somber. "Because part of that evidence deals with your husband, Catherine."

00oo00oo00

"Okay, so we have a clue, and forty two minutes to figure out what it's to—" Miss Chocolate murmured. She and Grissom were seated on the anvil, letting a shaft of sunlight dance over the little silver key on her palm.

"What's the first assumption?" Grissom asked, taking the opportunity to lean over her shoulder and breathe in the scent of her hair.

"That it goes to a vault in the bank. However, it's not the right shape," Miss Chocolate replied. "Vault keys are steel or iron, and generally are flat, from the bow all the way down the blade. This key however, has a rounded blade and an inscription on the bow."

"Which makes it the key to . . . ?"

" . . . Something more personal," Miss Chocolate decided. She held it up and studied it closely again. "Trying to figure out what's engraved here---"

They both scrutinized the key carefully and Grissom cocked his head. "If I were to venture a guess, I'd say it says 'memento mori.'"

"Which means it probably goes to something inside the First Congregational," Miss Chocolate concluded triumphantly. Grissom gave a quick nod and straightened up.

"I concur—so now the task is to escape . . . think I can get you to the church on time?" he teased. Miss Chocolate arched an eyebrow at him and deftly tucked the key into the pocket of her jeans.

"Maybe I'm the one getting you there—" came her counter. Grissom stepped out of the corral and towards the double doors, his hands touching the rough wood as he spoke over his shoulder to her.

"In tandem or in tow, we'll get there together. I don't think Mike will have left a window open, but it never hurts to check—quick check around the perimeter for any hidden doors or loose boards. Look out for further triplines or anything that gives off a buzzing sound."

Miss Chocolate nodded, and minutes later they had cautiously circled around the lower level of the stable. The stalls, the blacksmith hearth, the rest of the office corral all proved depressingly solid, and even the chimney was blocked off. When they met up in the center of the livery, Grissom smiled and gestured to the flat, wooden ladder nailed along the wall near the main doors. "Hayloft?"

She managed a smirk. "I wondered when you'd get around to inviting me up."

"If we didn't have cameras on us, it probably would have been the first order of business," he conceded sweetly. Miss Chocolate rolled her eyes but ascended first, moving up the ladder cautiously.

Her caution was justified—two of the rungs had been sawn through and broke under her weight. With an oath, she leaned over to pull herself up on the edge, feeling carefully for a good handhold. Within a few minutes she was standing amid the bales, leaning against the center post as Grissom hoisted himself up.

"Hay there," he punned gently. Miss Chocolate held out a hand to help him along.

"Mike TeeVee is stacking the deck," she grumbled. Grissom shot her a commiserating glance and looked around the hayloft, taking in the neatly stacked bales and huge pile of loose hay filling the floor at their feet. Light came from the other end, where a chicken wire covered window and a set of double doors stood.

"He's been known to do that—" Grissom murmured. "But there is always a way out. What would seem the easy one to you, dear?"

"Through the double doors, jump to the ground," Miss Chocolate replied. "Which means it will be booby-trapped."

"Most likely. Let's take a look to be sure—what's our time?"

"Twenty two minutes," came the prompt reply as she checked her watch. Together Miss Chocolate and Grissom took a few steps into the thick hay, looking carefully around. Miss Chocolate caught sight of something swooping and in a quick gesture wrapped an arm around her partner, pulling him down as the sandbag owl zipped past the spot where their heads had been. They tumbled into the straw together as the heavy weight slammed against the opposite wall, hitting with enough force to rattle the building.

"That was nasty," Grissom scowled over at the point of impact. Miss Chocolate took his moment of distraction to lightly lick his ear. He quivered pleasurably for a moment and cleared his throat. "And that was delightful. However—"

"All work and no play—" she teased. He caught her chin and kissed her quickly.

"—keeps Chocolate and Peppermint alive, for the moment. Let's take a look at that window over the doors."

00oo00oo00

He slipped out while the girls were asleep, feeling tired but smiling just the same, and not too concerned about the fresh scratches along his back and butt. He ached a lot more now, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. The real issue for the moment was how to figure out who the hell he was.

The drastic way would be to get arrested—not something he wanted to resort to, but something to consider if all else failed. Carefully he looked around the neighborhood outside the apartment building to see if there was anything to jog the memory and get him back on track. The mid morning heat hit hard, and he winced a little at the blinding light as he stared around

"Still Vegas . . . west of the Strip, and a little north too . . . " he murmured, orienting himself. A bit of confidence came back, and he turned his gaze eastward, and started walking. It was an easy stride, even in the heat, and after twenty minutes he came to an overpass for the highway. He jogged up and turned a winning smile towards the oncoming traffic, working hard at projecting an all-American innocence to his features. It seemed to have worked; after forty minutes of walking backwards with his thumb out, a small Subaru slowed down and pulled to the side. The window unrolled and a soft voice called out, "Need a ride?"

He nodded, and moved to the car, ready to launch into a prepared sob story, but froze as he made eye contact with the man behind the wheel.

"Ah . . . yeah. Yeah, I could sure use a ride—" he mumbled as David Phillips opened the door for him.

"Eddie," Catherine sighed, her gaze dropping down to the glass in front of her. "I have a feeling that what you're going to say isn't really going to surprise me."

"Probably not," Heather admitted gently. "But then again, all you've had were suspicions up to this point."

"Sam had Eddie killed, didn't he?" came the low question. Heather's silence hung in the air, and suddenly all the little sounds around them: the waves of the water, the rinky sound of the Muzak; the clink of dishes and chatter of other conversations sounded ridiculously loud in the void. Catherine blinked hard and sighed. "He had him killed, and you've got proof somehow. Something solid, but inadmissible in court."

Heather nodded. "Yes."

With a grimace, Catherine scooped up her drink and finished it off in two deep swallows, gasping as the burn heated her throat. Heather watched her, neither shocked nor alarmed, waiting patiently until Catherine wiped a hand along her own cheekbones. "God I needed to hear that. Been a long time coming, but . . . yeah."

"Yes. So you understand that you're in that niche too, Catherine. There won't be any legal justice for what happened to Eddie—but there can be closure."

"Closure," Catherine's mouth twisted into a bitter expression. "I've always hated that term. As if you could simply shut the memory of someone away like a coat in a closet. As if by knowing the answers you could forget them, or the pain."

Heather shook her head. "The point of closure is not forgetting, Catherine. Not EVER forgetting. None of the people working with me have forgotten the reason why they're doing this. Do you still want to join?"

Catherine's expression shifted into something fierce and determined. "Try and stop me."

The two women smiled at each other, and slowly grasped hands over the table.

0oo00oo00

Fingers flying, Gum Drop and Bubble Gum stared at file after file dredged up from the hard drive. Curled in his basket in the lab, Grenadine snored loudly.

"So, you really screwed up," Bubble Gum began cheerfully. "I hear that Sugar Daddy threatened to use you for target practice if you didn't come up with the number."

"He didn't threaten, he simply made it clear what was in the best interest for the entire organization . . ." Gum Drop sulked slightly, "Keep looking."

"I am—man you have a lot of junk—Ebay, Curly's Vintage Shoppe, Salty's Record Attic—do you actually have any WORK on this thing?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

Grenadine woke with a jump, and whined fretfully.

"Yeah, whatever," Bubble Gum grinned. He shifted to another page and after a moment, pulled up something onscreen. "I think we may have paydirt here—"

"Yessss—" Gum Drop nodded. "That's it. Now let's get the damned number—"

Just as Bubble Gum began a quick copy and paste, the overhead lights swayed and the floor rumbled. Alarmed, both men looked up quickly as the shaking continued. As one, they shifted to the doorway of the office. The faint sound of broken glass and a few muffled yells came from down the hall, and Grenadine barked.

"Not good—" Gum Drop muttered, "NOT good!"

"Shut up, it's just a little one," Bubble Gum shot back tensely. "No big—it happens around here, okay?"

A few seconds later the trembling stopped, and things were relatively calm again for approximately three seconds. Then the power went off, plunging the entire Candy Shop into darkness. More yells came from down the hall, and at their feet, Grenadine gave a little concerned whine.

"Oh greeeeeat. Yeah, this is going to make things much better," Gum Drop shot back. "We're trapped underground in the dark and we can't call for help because nobody is supposed to know we're down here—

"

Bubble Gum spoke up lightly. "Yeah, but on the bright side, you have a really good excuse for not getting the chip number now."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

The lights and bank of screens inside the Desert Rose flickered as the rolling sway passed through the building. Both Mike TeeVee and Mr. Sugar looked up in alarm; next to them, Miss Honey gripped the arms of her chair in surprise.

"An earthquake! We haven't had one of those in a while—" she murmured softly.

The shaking died away after several more seconds, the rumble like fading thunder. Miss Honey and Mr. Sugar relaxed a little.

"No, we haven't—" Mike replied in an absent-minded tone. He leaned forward and tapped the monitor in front of him, which showed the outside of the livery stable. "I'd better run a quick diagnostic and make sure everything's still on-line. Gauntlet—self check on all untrippeds and Main Street please. Hold clock until done."

"Underway. Hold, please," came the low tones of Catherine Willow's voice. The two VIPs looked at each other and flashed a quick smirk; Mike picked up a headset and spoke into the microphone, sounding regretful.

"Sorry to interrupt you two, but that last little temblor shook us up here and I want to check the systems before we go on. I've got the clock suspended, so if you want to get to Main Street while we do a diagnostic it's only fair."

Out on the edge of the hayloft window, Sara and Mr. Peppermint looked at each other and shared a quick grin. She leaned closer to him and whispered, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yes," he replied just as softly. "I certainly am."

They both looked out the open hayloft window at the tackle block dangling within arm's reach. Mr. Peppermint snagged it and pulled it to them. One by one they climbed down it and dropped to the hard-packed dirt ground below, looking around cautiously. The town was quiet, and there was a hint of heat in the air now.

Sara looked across the street. The Desert Rose was just opposite them. On the right side of the bordello was Bullock and Starr hardware store, and to the right of that, standing in dilapidated glory stood the First Congregational.

Mr. Peppermint motioned her to the shadows of the livery and spoke softly in her ear. "We have a rare opportunity here, Miss Chocolate, and I think we'd be remiss not to take it. Our second clue is in the church, but if we consider another option . . . "

"A coup?" Sara breathed delightedly, "You really think we can?"

"I couldn't do it alone," Mr. Peppermint acknowledged softly, "But with a little help it would be possible. I'd need you to go to the First Congregational and keep talking to me as if I were just out of sight of the camera, which I will be, of course. I'll get back to you as soon as I can and we can make our next move from there." To seal her participation he kissed her temple; Sara grinned.

"And just what will you be doing off-camera, Mr. Peppermint?"

"A little creative hacking . . . oh I really like your perfume," he murmured, nuzzling into her hair. "It smells like hayloft and mischief."

"Mmmm," she smiled at him. "Partner aroused by danger—I'll have to make a note of that."

"Please do, Frango—and watch out for the baptismal font in the church."

With that last puzzling instruction Mr. Peppermint moved off and back behind the livery. Sara took a breath an ambled out towards Main Street, keeping an eye out along the false fronts of the various buildings. She pretended to check her watch, and let her gaze sweep down the street, then jogged towards the church, looking towards the saloon with a few deliberate glances before reaching the steps and railing of the First Congregational.

The steps were wooden, and creaked, even under her slight weight. Looking carefully, Sara eyed the door before touching it, and thus heard the faint hum rising from the ornate brass handle. She pulled off her jacket and wrapped it around her hand, insulating herself from the electric shock, and slipped inside, feeling a bit more confident. The jolt wouldn't have killed her, she was sure, but neither would it have felt good.

The interior of the First Congregational was austere in the way of many frontier churches. Wooden pews lined either side of a narrow aisle, and the windows were tall and narrow, letting in the midmorning light. Sara stood still for a moment, appreciating the simple beauty of the place as she put her jacket back on. Part of her knew it wasn't real—all a stage of sorts, just as the entire town was—but the attention to detail and serenity here was touching. Her gaze moved across the room, taking in the details.

"It's a gorgeous place. Where do you think we ought to start looking?" Sara demanded loudly, hoping the microphones would pick up her voice.

The font was off to one side, the wooden and brass lid on it engraved with a simple design of a cross tin punched into it. There were seven pews on each side of the aisle, and up ahead, a few steps up to the altar and the pulpit on the right hand side. Sara patted her jacket pocket for the key, reassuring herself it was there, then cautiously, she moved up the nave.

A simple creak alerted her, and Sara jumped to one side as the tiny darts flew out of the trumpeting cherubs carved along the sides of the pew. They stuck, quivering in the wood of the pew on the opposite side, and Sara blew her bangs out of her face, grateful for her sharp ears. Unfortunately there were carved cherubs all the way up the center aisle so walking that route was out. Sara cut across the pew to the right side and went up the outside aisle.

Or tried to, anyway.

"Well shoot, we're going to have a tough time getting to the altar—" Sara grumbled aloud.

It took a moment for her to realize that the aisles were far too narrow for a person to pass along; a careful design that wasn't obvious at first. With a faint admiration, Sara moved back and looked at the nave again.

How to move towards the pulpit without setting off the cherubs?

She stepped up on the pew, and then onto the end of it, balancing carefully. With cautious steps, Sara stepped from pew end to pew end, like a gymnast on a balance beam. When she reached the steps of the altar, she hopped off and moved to the pulpit, searching it carefully.

Bingo. The bible had a large buckle on it, with a keyhole. Sara pulled out the key from her pocket and inserted it, turning gently. The hasp of the bible lock slid away, and she opened the massive tome.

Hollowed out, and in the space cut into the pages lay a bandana and a pistol. Sara took them out, grinning. "From salvation to sin. Time—" she checked her watch, "—to rob a bank."

She moved back down the aisle again on the ends of the pews, and when she'd reached the back of the church Sara looked at the baptismal font curiously. Taking a moment, she walked over to it and studied the cover.

The punched tin holes were large. Too large for mere decoration. Sara rapped on the font with her knuckles, and the angry buzz of a rattlesnake echoed under the lid. She jumped back and hurried to the door, feeling chastened.

00oo00oo00

Sugar Daddy watched as the last of the glass was swept up, and spoke into his cell phone softly. "We're fine. A little shook up, but nothing serious so you don't need to cut your trip short unless you want to. This sets us back a tiny bit in regards to Jellybean, but I've got Licorice and Jaw Breaker on it, so I expect some news pretty soon. How goes the recruitment?"

"She's on board," Miss Lollipop purred back. "Which is going to be a tremendous asset for us. How goes the Gauntlet?"

"You," Sugar Daddy accused, "Probably know more than I do on that account, hon. Mike was giving us the live feed right up until the quake, but that's offline for the moment. He called in to say everyone there's okay, but some of Eternity might be out of whack. I hope that doesn't screw up the outcome."

"Knowing Mr. Peppermint, he's taking full advantage of his situation," Miss Lollipop replied. "I know I would in the same circumstances."

"You would," Sugar Daddy agreed with a smile. "I would too."

"That's what makes us what we are," she pointed out firmly. "And on that note, I'm off to help Catherine settle some matters here. I'll be home tomorrow—goulash? My place?"

"I'm there," he rumbled back and hung up. As he pocketed the phone, Sugar Daddy looked down at Grenadine. "Come on, hound. We've got a jelly bean to find."

He picked the dog up and went back to the lab, staring around at the slightly cluttered space, thinking hard. Gum Drop was there, glumly salvaging files and muttering to himself. When he noticed Sugar Daddy he went silent

Sugar Daddy spoke mildly. "The last conversation you had with Greg—did he say where he was going?"

"All he told me was that he was going to a bar," Gum Drop replied. "No names."

"Every little bit helps. And so he wore this . . . experiment of yours there?"

"Most likely," Gum Drop sniffed. "The whole point was to give it a test run. Talk to Nick and Warrick—they might know where he went."

"Right," Sugar Daddy commented, and left the tech to his clutter.

00oo00oo00

He shifted a little, trying to keep unnoticed, but it wasn't easy because the driver (davidphillips) kept shooting sidelong glances at him; the sort that say 'I know you, but I can't place you.'

The problem was pretty clear—they DID know each other; rather HE knew the driver (davidphillips), since he had the man's wallet and ID in his own pocket. The only way out was to bluff a little, and make nice.

He could make nice—that part was the easiest. With a subtle move, he pulled the wallet out and let it tumble to the floor of the car, then nudged it a little with his foot. The driver never noticed.

"So, thanks for picking me up. I really appreciate it," he began in a friendly tone. The driver (davidphillips) gave a little shrug.

"Not a problem. I don't normally do this, but you looked kind of familiar, so I figured it would be worth it. Do you mind if I ask you your name?"

"Not at all—I'm—whoa, what's that?" he bluffed, looking down in carefully acted surprise, pointing to the wallet. The driver (davidphillips) risked a glance and his entire countenance lit up

"My wallet! Oh wow. I was Sure I lost it. Tore up my whole apartment looking for it and it's been here the whole time! Can you pick that up for me?"

"Sure." Smoothly he picked it up and handed it to the driver (davidphillips) who opened it with one hand and sighed happily

"Must have fallen out when I drove home last night from the Moon Glow. Hey! That's where I saw you, right? You were with those two um, waitresses at the counter, drinking TruBlood, right?"

A sense of relief flooded him and he nodded, trying to look sheepish. That part wasn't hard. "Yeah. Stuff packs a punch, doesn't it?"

"Oh yes. It's probably because it's twenty nine and a half percent alcohol—strongest in the world outside of _Hair of the Dog's_ brew. Get enough Trueblood and you could preserve a body in it." He paused, "Not that I've done that or anything."

"Right," He agreed, shooting a worried little sidelong glance at David Phillips.

"Anyway, I didn't catch your name, OR where you wanted to be dropped off."

"Oh anywhere on the Strip is fine . . . it's my day off so I'm not in a hurry to get home, you know. Got a few slot machines with my name on them," he bluffed softly. "Lazy day."

"You're lucky. I've got to work today," came the glum reply. "Fifteen alterations and six fittings."

"Tailor?' he asked curiously. David Phillips nodded, his glum expression shifting into something a bit more proud.

"Tailor, repair person, all around wardrobe manager. What I really want to do is design, but Feydor isn't going to let that happen. Did you happen to see the Can Can Revue over at the Paris casino?"

"Oooh la LA," he commented with a grin. "I seem to recall a few pret-ty racy outfits in that one."

David Phillips blushed a bit. "My designs. No credit though—when I signed on to work under Feydor there was a creativity clause that meant any original creations would go under his name for the duration of my employment."

"That sucks," he observed with sympathy. "Especially when it's clear you've got talent."

"I've got some. For example, I can tell you're a thirty two waist and a thirty inseam; that you dress to the left and prefer jackets over formal coats. You probably know how to properly wear a tux, but feel more comfortable in outfits with looser sleeves. And you're left-handed."

He blinked. "Whoa—you know all that?"

"The sizes are a given, for what I do. You've got ink on the underside of your left sleeve so I know what handed you are. And you like loose sleeves because you're a pickpocket, although why you gave me back my wallet is still kind of a mystery," David Phillips murmured gently.

00oo00oo00

Grissom sat quietly, listening to the hum of activities in the room next door. The one he was in currently had thin walls, and he could hear the sounds of three people talking softly as he pressed his ear to the boards. He took the flowers out of his weapon. A simple thing, but one that Mike wasn't expecting.

"She's a smart one, although I think we all knew that," came a man's voice. Grissom heard Mike reply in a distracted way.

"Quick, I'll give her that. Damn—the cameras for the church and the bank are off-line."

"Nothing dangerous?" came a woman's voice; a slightly older woman from the dulcet tones Grissom heard.

"Probably not, but I wouldn't want to be accused of not getting the proper documentation for the run. I'm going to see if the circuit behind the bar needs wiggling—"

The sound of footsteps moved across the room and were punctuated by the creak of a door. Grissom waited until he heard Mike's boots moving down the stairs before shifting.

Quickly, quietly he stepped out into the hall and towards the door of the main control room, carrying his weapon. The keypad sensor was still green from Mike's departure, and Grissom stepped inside quickly, shifting to the immediate left of the doorframe. In front of the bank of monitors and controls, two people sat in comfortable chairs, looking up at the screens. The man shifted his crutches slightly and turned. "Forget some—you're not Mike!"

"No," Grissom agreed, and hit the close button on the control room door. He moved up between the chairs and very carefully, very deliberately poured out the entire vase of water into the keyboards and switches under the monitors.

Instantly angry electricity crackled and snapped; the monitors flickered before dying, and a woman's voice came over the loudspeakers. "Unexpected emergency in the control room. Protocols activated."

Grissom looked up for a second, nonplussed at the sound of Senator Braun's daughter, then took the glass vase and dropped it. He ground one of the pieces to powder under his heel as the two people watched, open-mouthed.

"What are you doing?" Portia Richmond demanded. Grissom smiled at her and carefully scooped up the glass powder.

"Holding you hostage, frankly. Stay put—" So saying, Grissom carried the ground glass over to the sliding door and carefully puffed it into the laser keyhole; the single red beam there broke into a million fractured beams.

He turned back around and looked from Mr. Sugar to Miss Honey and shoved a hand in his pocket. They both flinched. Grissom withdrew a deck of cards. "We'll be here a while. Five card, jacks or better to open."

00oo00oo00

They parked outside the bar, neither of them saying anything. Finally Jaw Breaker looked at Licorice and shook his head slowly. "Not here. He wouldn't."

"Care to make that a bet?" Licorice muttered back, slipping on his sunglasses. Jaw Breaker sighed and climbed out of the sleek Camaro.

"Nope. I hate this bar; you know that."

"Yeah—maybe this time you'll get out with your nose in once piece," came the reply as Licorice came around and joined him on the sidewalk.

Even in the light of midday, the Moon Glow still seemed to hold an aura of menace behind the closed windows and door. Jaw Breaker hesitated, and then knocked. There was no answer.

Reaching over, Licorice knocked harder, and before he could pull his arm back, the door whipped open and impossibly large, hairy hands grabbed their shirtfronts, yanking them inside.

"Whoa!" Stumbling they both blinked, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. In front of them, a snarling, unshaven monolith in overalls and no shirt growled.

"You wanna keep those knuckles, stop knocking."

"Sorry man—just looking for information. Nobody answered our calls," Jaw Breaker said in a slightly tremulous voice.

"No information here," Came the short response. Licorice looked around at the broken furniture and trash-filled floor. There were dark splashes on the walls, and a faint copper scent hung in the still air. A few flies buzzed.

"Rough evening?" he asked politely.

The hairy monolith grunted. "Ladies Night."

"Looks like you have some . . . mean ladies," Jaw Breaker ventured.

The monolith gave another grunt, this one in agreement. "Damndest thing I ever saw. Fifteen broads having it out with each other full tits over ass contact fighting. None of that scratch and pull hair shit, either—we haven't had this kinda blood on the walls since—well, in a while."

"PMS?" Licorice ventured softly.

The monolith rumbled, kicking at a broken chair with one hairy bare foot. "Not unless it hit every dame in the joint at the same time. Nine oh three, everything's cool. By nine fifteen this place was an effin war zone. I'm betting Desert Palms put in more stitches on our clientele last night than you'd see at a Frankenstein festival."

"So . . . what happened?" Jaw Breaker asked, curious despite himself. The monolith scratched his ears, which were slightly pointed.

"They were fighting over a guy, if you can believe it. Some skinny asshole with stock in bad hair gel. The kinda wimp we throw out of here if they're lucky."

"Sounds like the Bean," Licorice muttered.

Jaw Breaker nodded and spoke up again. "About six feet, brown eyes, sort of lanky?"

"Yeah. He walked in and ordered a Trueblood, no big deal. Showed a couple of my girls a few sleight of hand tricks. I got busy with drinks so I didn't see, but a couple of minutes later they were going after him like he was a spikey-haired piñata."

"What happened to him?"

"Out the back with the girls I guess—I dunno, I was a tiny bit busy with the riot breaking out along my counter. So what the hell do you want, because I have a lot of cleaning up to do before we open tonight"

"You're going to be open?" Licorice blurted, looking at the destruction throughout the room.

The monolith growled again, a low sound that made four testicles tighten. "We are the Moon Glow. We're always open, got it?"

Both Licorice and Jaw Breaker nodded. Quickly. Jaw Breaker cleared his throat, his voice unexpectedly squeaky. "Uh, I don't suppose you have any idea were the girls live . . .

The monolith bared his teeth, and in the dim light of the closed bar it was more than enough of a warning.

Back out on the sidewalk, Jaw Breaker fought for breath, leaning on the car. Licorice gasped a little, and nudged his partner. "I've decided, man—"

"Yeah?"

"I hate this place too."


	6. Chapter 6

Mike TeeVee stood outside the jammed door to the control room of the Gauntlet and thought hard. This move by Mr. Peppermint hadn't been one he'd anticipated, but then again, Carpe Opportunum was one of the primary tenets of the Shop. He quietly cursed the earthquake.

"Grissom?" Mike called, trying not to sound concerned. There was no answer at first, and then the reply came faintly through the door.

"Shhhh—I'm on a streak, Mike. Mr. Sugar here thinks he can fill his straight before I call."

"Oh for the love of—" Came the exasperated voice of a frustrated Mr. Sugar. "--You're counting cards, Grissom—"

"It's still the easiest way of gaining the edge," came the calm reply. "Miss Honey?"

"I fold," she replied with a laugh in her voice. Mike rested his forehead against the door a little harder than he'd intended and it thudded there lightly.

Damn it. Not only had he jammed the door, he had hostages now. Mike wondered if Mr. Peppermint's middle name was 'bastard,' because if it hadn't been, it should be.

"Grissom, come on. I can't negotiate until I know what your demands are."

"No demands, Mike. The game's over. The clock has stopped; the weight-enhanced diva has warbled her solo. You know as well as I do what I expect," Grissom replied pleasantly.

Mike scowled, closing his eyes. "No can do, amigo."

"Yes you can. You just don't want to," Grissom responded quietly. Outside the door, Mike gritted his teeth. "What do you think, Miss Chocolate? Can we get him to concede?"

There was a soft, feminine snort in reply, and Mike Teevee ran a hand through his short hair, stomping a little in the hallway, glad that no one could see him getting pissed off.

"NOT happening, Grissom! I know this place inside and out; I'll get in that control room before your designated time ends—you know I can."

"Not short of a welding blow torch or a SWAT team, Mike. Our quartet will be here for a while, so go have fun—" came the dismissive reply.

Mike punched the door, ignoring the soft chuckles his petulant gesture brought, and made his way down the upper hallway of the Desert Rose, thinking hard.

Damn him. Grissom was right— physically getting into Control 1 would be next to impossible within twenty minutes . . . but the overrides of Control 2 might still be functional. On this cheering thought, Mike made his way downstairs.

Back in Control Room 1, Miss Honey looked at Grissom, who pushed over his pile of crumpled bills to her. He grinned. "Lovely performance; well worth the price."

"Two thousand for a girlish chuckle, my my! I'll contribute this to a certain college fund I'm starting," Miss Honey replied smugly. "What happens next?"

"Yes, even I'm curious about that," Mr. Sugar admitted grudgingly as he shuffled the cards again.

Grissom flashed a bland smile that gave nothing away.

00oo00

"Wait a minute—you know me?" he demanded, feeling panicked. David Phillips looked over at him and gave a shrug.

"Not personally, no, but like I said, I remember you from the Moon Glow."

"The bar."

"Yes, the place, not the song." David replied, slightly puzzled. "I'm not sure the bar even knows about the song."

He frowned. "Does the Moon Glow have a jukebox?"

"Not anymore," David Phillips sighed. "It doesn't have much in the way of entertainment. Not since the dart game fatalities. It's kind of a rough place."

"I wish I could remember," he murmured in a rueful tone. David Phillips eyed him carefully.

"Memory loss? That's not good—did you get hit on the head? That happens a lot too at the Moon Glow. They have all the ambulance services on speed dial."

"Nnnno, I don't have a concussion or black eyes," came his reply. The car began to move down the Strip, and David Phillips cleared his throat.

"To be honest, I don't feel comfortable just dropping you off if you don't know who you are. Even if you did steal my wallet."

"Hey look, I'm sorry about that. I don't do that usually—" He mumbled, looking away. "I hope."

David Phillips managed an understanding smile. "—But you don't remember, yeah. Is there anything you remember?"

"I woke up in bed with two Italian women," came his soft chortle.

David Phillips blushed for him, but it shifted to a smirk. "Congratulations. But think hard—name, address, anything?"

He closed his eyes and concentrated; for a few taunting seconds the images of a man, a dog and a woman crossed his consciousness; when he opened them again, he sighed. "Peppermint, grenadine and a beautiful woman on a boat. None of that makes any sense."

"No," David murmured mournfully. "Listen, come to work with me for today—I'll tell them you're my cousin or something—and we'll see if anything triggers your memory."

"You—" he smiled at David, "Are too nice a guy to be living in Las Vegas."

"I get that a lot," David agreed with a sigh.

00oo00

Sitting in the Double Tree hotel room, Heather looked at her monitor in mild exasperation; the feed from the Gauntlet had disappeared, and Mike was not answering her call. A vague sense of unease panged in her stomach, and she was on the verge of dialing Sugar Daddy when Catherine interrupted her. "Is there a problem?"

"Nothing serious, I'm sure. Where were we?"

"Setting up an apartment for me in Herndon," Catherine murmured, busy over her own laptop, typing away. "With extra security—Lindsey's going to love being able to stay at the Academy for graduation."

"Good—she's already had enough disruption in her life," Heather agreed absently, and pointed to her monitor of the computer that SHE was working on. "Tell me, who is this blonde in all the surveillance photos? Do you know her?"

Catherine looked up and nodded grimly. "Sofia Curtis; dad's personal assistant. She's window dressing when he needs it, and keeps his schedule running. Private hire, by the way and not part of dad's social circle either. I think I've met her twice."

"Is your father sleeping with her?"

"Ew. Not only is she two decades younger than he is, she's not his type, and I mean that in a lot of ways," came the swift reply. "I guess you could call her the senator's long, golden beard."

"I see," Heather murmured, and her fingers flew across the keyboard once more, accessing secret databases, and pulling up top security sites. She scanned through the dossier there and nodded gently at the information that scrolled up. "Curtis is a false identity; she's an ex-bodyguard from England, Does your father pay that well?"

Catherine made a little affirmative noise. "Good help doesn't come cheap—and in his case, good help means being capable of taking care of certain messes . . . like Eddie. Like me."

Heather narrowed her eyes. "Keep in mind that Sam Braun is the mess maker, Catherine, not you. If you're going to be part of my operation, you're going to have to leave that tendency to play victim somewhere else."

Catherine looked up over her laptop, startled and a little angry. Her expression morphed quickly into wry chagrin after a second or so, and she nodded. "Okay, I deserved that."

"Just a gentle reminder. We need to intercept Ms. Curtis and see if we can use her to flush your father out—let's call it your audition piece. Do well, and I'll keep you on as a stringer here on the East Coast."

"And if I don't . . . pan out?" Catherine asked bluntly.

Heather shot her a serene look. "I've never offered a position in my Shop to anyone who didn't make it---I have an eye for quality."

00oo00

Mike TeeVee reached the last stair and glanced out at the main room of the Saloon, still lost in thought when the unexpected twang of a tripwire at ankle level sent him falling. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a lean, fast form in black and cranberry darting out at him. He hit the floor and curled up instinctively, the wind knocked out of him for the moment. Then the sudden weight across his back made breathing a serious challenge, as did the belt looping around his throat.

Mike made gargled strangling noises

Gripping his ribs with her thighs, Miss Chocolate tightened her clench, and yanked the noose around his neck. She knew the only factors in her favor at the moment were surprise and speed; in hand-to-hand Mike would gain the advantage if he wasn't put out of commission within the first few minutes of their engagement. She wasn't afraid, although he was a big man, and leaned down, her mouth next to one ear as she kept the noose taut. "Hello, Mike. On your way to Control Two, I'm guessing."

He tried to buck her off, weakly—the lack of oxygen wasn't helping, and he clawed at the point where the belt dug into his throat.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!" Miss Chocolate screamed in his ear, making him flinch, hard. Dazed, he tried to curl up again, and as he did so, she reached back into his pocket, pulling everything out she could reach: keys, wallet, notes, a pen. Picking the last item up, Miss Chocolate brought it up to the other ear, nosing the point in a bit—not enough to block off his remaining hearing, but enough to mean business.

"OKAY, MIKE, LET'S GO FIND SOME ROPE. DON'T MAKE ME TOUCH YOUR BRAIN WITH A BALLPOINT," She cheerfully yelled. "GIDDY UP!"

On the second floor, the three card players paused, listening. Mr. Sugar looked extremely wary; Miss Honey had a delighted smirk. Grissom sighed, deeply and happily. He dealt a new hand, cards flying across the table to each player with professional speed. "God I love that woman! Jacks or better to open."

"We're screwed," Mr. Sugar observed with a pained wince, picking up his hand.

"No, it sounds to me like Mr. TeeVee is the one at a disadvantage, " Miss Honey observed.

Grissom studied his cards carefully. "Well you know the old saying . . . no one can say no to Chocolate."

00oo00

"Okay, we have reports of someone picking up a hitchhiker close to Greg's general description just of Highway fifteen heading into the city. A Subaru and a partial plate—let's see if we can get it from DMV before the cops do . . . . come on, come on . . . here we go . . . David Phillips—there's a home address, but he's probably heading to work, so let's cross refer it with the casino employee database . . . ." Bubble Gum cheerfully fed the play by play over his shoulder as his long fingers worked their magic across the keyboard. Standing behind him and off to the side, Sugar Daddy eyed the monitor carefully.

"Look over parking assignments too, if you have to," he rumbled. Bubble Gum nodded, and clicked a few more keys., making the screen change with dizzying speed.

Finally a face popped up on the screen. Sugar Daddy studied it a moment and sighed. "Oh great. That is a classic Nice Guy. He probably donates to the Salvation Army Kettle every time he passes one, lets people ahead of him in line at the grocery store and gets to be the designated driver on a regular basis."

Bubble Gum nodded. "Yeah, he's got the look all right. Loans money, chips in for gas, puts the seat down."

"In other words—a sucker. If he picked Greg up, memory or no memory, our boy could fleece him like a spring lamb. Where does he work?"

"In house tailor for the Paris Casino, apparently. Should we send Jaw Breaker and Licorice?" Bubble Gum asked with amusement.

Sugar Daddy shook his head. "Nah, I think I'll mosey on over myself—I'm less likely to spook anyone. You and Gum Drop get the rest of the computers up and running and I'll check in if I need any help."

"You're the boss," Bubble Gum agreed.

Sugar Daddy gave a little grunt at that. "Nah, I'm just the hired gun. Or knife. Or nail clipper."

Bubble Gum looked over his shoulder uneasily. "You've killed people with nail clippers?"

"Only in salons."

00oo00

Mike decided he was having an extremely bad day. This was an easy revelation, made simpler by the fact that he was trussed up and dangling upside down from the scaffold at the end of town. Miss Chocolate studied him cheerfully, and he admired her almost as much as he hated her, along with her knowledge of knots, pulleys and gravity.

She was frightening—the cool beauty, the devious mind, the unpredictability—and for the first time Mike understood exactly why Mr. Peppermint loved this lean, dangerous woman.

"Uncle," he called out hopefully. Miss Chocolate smiled.

"Nice try, but no. We're staying here until Mr. Peppermint dismantles this shooting gallery of yours. For the record, it's a pretty amazing place."

"I know. My bete noir, my high tech mistress, my magnum opus," Mike rumbled, wishing all the blood wasn't running to his head. "Disneyland with death traps, and you two had to go all Kobayashi Maru on it."

"We had to make a point," Miss Chocolate told him with a hint of regret. "Grissom and I, we know how to play by the rules. The problem is that when the rules don't make sense, they lose their . . . authority. New rules have to be made."

"Revolt," he sighed. "Yeah, I GET it. Let me down, I'm dizzy."

"Not revolt . . . evolution of a sort. Here at the Shop, none of us are alone. We're all here because we know how broken the systems in the real world are, Mike. We've all been broken ourselves. And you know what heals us? Being united. Working together," Miss Chocolate murmured. "Having someone you can count on, watching your back."

"Going to pass out here---"

"Not yet. Just know it's nothing personal, Mike. And at the same time, it's totally personal."

"That . . . made sense." Mike mumbled. Miss Chocolate reached over and slowly turned a ratchet crank on the wooden frame; Mike's rope-encased body began to lower down through the trap door of the drop.

"Oh course it makes sense. Teamwork is a matter of trust. You're on our team, so . . . trust me."

She continued to lower him gently until he was lying on the sandy ground under the gallows scaffold, looking up through the open door. Miss Chocolate knelt and peered down at Mike through the square of light. "Better?"

He winced. "Not really."

"The ropes?" she asked gently.

"No, the hill of fire ants I planted here---" Mike whined. "A little help, please?"

Miss Chocolate laughed a throaty laugh. "This is SO not your day."

"You're telling ME?"

She sighed, and climbed off the scaffold. Miss Chocolate rolled him a few yards down the road, brushing away the little red insects from around his ears. "Let me go get a fire extinguisher—"

"Oh yeah. And a gallon of Bactine," came Mike's urgent plea. "Please."


	7. Chapter 7

Sugar Daddy wandered up to the door that said 'Employees Only' and opened it. He had Grenadine in one arm and the little dog was quietly watching. "How does it feel to be an alibi, dust mop?" Sugar Daddy asked Grenadine, who wagged his tail slightly in a plumy sweep and licked his own nose.

He liked the dog, who despite his fluffiness was solidly masculine and a bit of a clown at times. Grenadine took a lot of grooming, sure, but he was patient through it, and had a calmness not found in many pets his size. Sugar Daddy had never much cared for small dogs, but Grenadine was clearly an exception.

They looked around in the room beyond the door, and found an employee lounge, complete with refrigerator, microwave, sofas and old magazines scattered over a messy coffeetable in the middle. A typical room for breaks, and at the moment, empty. Sugar Daddy noted that the coffee was fresh, and that a further door beyond was slightly ajar. Voices were coming through, and curious, he bent over to peer into the gap.

Thighs met his inquiring gaze, and for a moment, Sugar Daddy simply noted and enjoyed the vision of sleek young legs, bare and muscled just beyond the door. The girl turned and in a second, the view shifted to a trim and shapely bottom; one so perky and firm that Sugar Daddy felt a guilty surge of lust in quick response.

Grenadine wagged his tail again.

"You and me both," Sugar Daddy muttered. He set the dog down and encouraged him to waddle through the doors; Grenadine did with more speed than grace, making his way into the adjoining room and happily sniffing the high heels of the girl.

"Oh my GAWD whatta CAYOOOOTTEEEE PUPPIEEEE! Sayndraaa, Lupe, Come on ovah and see this lil guy!" the girl brayed happily, her Jersey intonations clear in every syllable.

Sugar Daddy hid a grin and after a moment, poked his head around the door, doing his best to look slightly bewildered. "Hey, have you seen—ah, yeah, there he is."

Grenadine was now cradled in the arms of the girl, and was doing his best to lick the entire expanse of exposed skin between her neck and generous cleavage. For a brief moment, Sugar Daddy envied the Pekinese his happy chore, then cleared his throat and smiled benignly. "That's my boy—he wandered off and I'm here to get him back."

Sugar Daddy personally meant Jelly Bean, but permitted the chorine to think he meant the dog.

The girl cooed. "He is SO freakin' a-DOR-a-ble!" The two other young women agreed, gently reaching out to pet Grenadine, who blinked his eyes in doggy bliss. Sugar Daddy looked around carefully.

The room seemed to be some side extension to the stage of the Paris Casino, and judging by the skimpy outfits the girls were almost wearing, Sugar Daddy surmised was a state of undress rehearsal. He spotted David Phillips off to one side, pinning up a hemline that couldn't really go much higher. Noting his red cheeks, Sugar Daddy further guessed that the showgirls probably adored him for still being able to blush.

No sign of Jelly Bean though. Sugar Daddy turned and slowly moved to go collect Grenadine, wondering what to do next. The girls were still playing with the dog, and reluctantly gave him up; Sugar Daddy set Grenadine down while the young women asked him several questions:

"So what kinda dowg is he anyway?"

"Is he hard to groom?"

"What's his name?"

"He's sure got big nuts for such a little pooch—"

"Purebred Pekinese; Yes, he's a little tough to brush out sometimes; Grenadine St. Cadbury of Mount Echo Kennels, and er, yes, he does," Sugar Daddy managed all in one reply, adding, "It's a family trait."

This made all the girls giggle, and the sound of their amusement caught the attention of David Phillips, who rose up and took a step forward.

Grenadine stiffened. He licked his nose and growled; a low rumbling sound of warning. Startled, Sugar Daddy looked at the dog in curiosity; he'd never heard Grenadine so much a snarl at anyone before and the change was alarming. "Whoah, pup, calm down---" Sugar Daddy soothed, moving to pick up the dog.

Grenadine moved forward, ignoring Sugar Daddy, his entire stocky focus on looking as menacingly fluffy as possible.

David Phillips blinked and pushed his glasses up, one finger on the nosepiece. "Unneutered male. He thinks I'm a threat," came his soft observation. Very carefully, David squatted and extended his hand, palm up towards Grenadine.

Stiff-legged, the Pekinese stepped closer and snuffled, not relaxing an iota until every inch of the offered palm and fingers were sniffed. David held still, and as Sugar Daddy watched him, he received the oddest impression that under his breath, the younger man was emitting a high-pitched whisper of a whine, just at the edge of hearing.

Grenadine gave a chuff of bravado, then his tail wagged ever so slightly; a tiny relaxation. The girls watched in fascination, wisely staying back until the Pekinese let his ears go up again, eyeing David cautiously, but without rancor now.

David sighed and glanced at Sugar Daddy. "Don't worry—it happens a lot. I guess I just have a scent that some dogs don't like."

"Good thing you're not a mailman," came the reply, making the girls laugh.

David nodded. "Yes, that could be a problem. Anyway, can I help you?"

"Just looking for my stray," Sugar Daddy admitted honestly. Grenadine's ears perked up at some distant sound, and he scooted between David's feet, making a beeline out onto the stage. Exasperated now, Sugar Daddy moved around the younger man and followed the dog, wanting to end the intrusion.

Then he heard the voice. "Hey!"

Out in the empty seats beyond the edge of the stage, sprawled and relaxed—

--Jelly Bean. The young man looked up; not at him, Sugar Daddy realized, but at the dog. "I know you!"

Rising to his feet, Jelly Bean clambered towards the stage, setting down the clipboard of scrawled notes and reaching for the delighted Pekingese, who was threatening to launch himself over the edge in his eagerness to get to the man. Jelly Bean ambled over, scooped the dog up and submitted to a serious face washing, smiling the entire time. "Whoah, leave a few features, Gren—I need some skin—"

"Hey." Sugar Daddy dropped to a squat at the edge of the stage and looked keenly at Jelly Bean. "Remember me?"

Jelly Bean looked from the dog to the man, and spoke uncertainly. "Sort of. You're . . . my boss . . . right?"

Sugar Daddy stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. "Something like that. I'm here to take you to the doctor . . . Greg."

"So you two know each other?" David was at Sugar Daddy's side, having padded up silently. Sugar Daddy shot him a surprised look, but nodded.

"I know him, which is the salient point here. His name's Greg Sanders and he works for me in . . . Sales."

"Sales?" both David and Greg asked. Sugar Daddy nodded.

"In a manner of speaking. I was close to filing a missing person report, but I guess that's not necessary now."

"Wait a minute—do you have any proof of who either of us are?" Greg asked cautiously. Sugar Daddy fished in one pocket and pulled out two items: an ID card and a photo. The ID card was for one Gregory Sanders, employee of CS Enterprises, and had both his photo and on the reverse, his thumbprint. The photo was clearly a shot taken at a Christmas party, with two men in front of a buffet table, standing in a comradely fashion, the younger man's arm over the shoulder of the older man.

The older, grey-haired man was wincing through his smile.

Greg stared at both items and memories slowly began to rise up through the blankness of past. He glanced up at Sugar Daddy. "This isn't . . . you don't like me, do you?"

"I like you. I'm not crazy about some of the antics you pull," came the soft correction. "Come on—our people have been worried about you, Greg."

"Who's the guy in the photo—the one that I'm with? Because it's not YOU," Greg argued, feeling a sense of panic. He knew he was in trouble, but what kind and how much had yet to be determined.

"That's Mr. Grissom—you remember him. He's your . . . supervisor. Works with bookkeeping," Sugar Daddy persisted softly. "Along with Ms. Sidle."

"Sidle. Her name's Sara, right?" Greg nodded, dim memories fluttering in his head. "Hot brunette?"

"Yes," Sugar Daddy agreed. He knew David was watching the entire interplay, and that put some pressure on; gently he reached for Grenadine. "Come on Greg—Let me take you to someone who can check you out and see what's wrong with you, all right?"

Greg hesitated, and looked at David Phillips, feeling a sense of obligation. "Only if David goes too. Because while you SEEM to know who I am, I want some witness, some insurance, you dig?"

Sugar Daddy blinked, feeling annoyed at this new paranoid roadblock. He sighed. "So let me get this straight. You want to drag this nice tailor away from his work just because you don't trust me, even though I have your ID with me?"

"Deal or no deal," Greg insisted.

Both men looked at David, who sighed, and pulled the measuring tape from around his neck. "It's almost lunchtime anyway, what the heck."

00oo00

"So how DO we get out?" Mr. Sugar asked in an annoyed tone. His goodwill had slowly been whittled away along with his immediate cash during the poker game. Grissom gave him a gentle look.

"Through the emergency door, of course. You don't think Mike would have built a control room without one, right?"

There was no answer to this; Miss Honey arched an eyebrow, amused and impressed. Grissom collected his winnings, neatly tucking them away in his pocket, and rose from the table. He walked over to the fireplace.

"Not a revolving fireplace—" Mr. Sugar grumbled. "That's practically cliché."

"Sliding panel NEXT to the fireplace," Grissom admitted. "We wanted the revolving fireplace but it would have been hell with the fire code. If Mike had made it to Control Two he would have been able to lock this door, but as we all know that didn't happen."

"What if he had?" Miss Honey asked curiously.

Grissom shrugged and pointed to the window. Mr. Sugar and Miss Honey looked at each other, both smiling skeptically.

"Riiiight," Mr. Sugar purred out. Grissom moved to the window seat and opened it up, revealing the rolled up ladder within it.

"No bed sheets needed," he pointed out mildly. "In any case, I'd prefer the second door myself." Grissom checked his watch and smiled, then motioned to the other two, who had no choice but to come forward. He herded them down the stairs and out into the main floor of the saloon below, everyone stepping out from the door behind the grandfather clock.

Miss Chocolate was there, sitting on the bar and reading a copy of the _Eternity Marker _and humming to herself. Mr. Sugar and Miss Honey strode over to her.

"Where's Mike?" Mr. Sugar demanded.

Miss Chocolate smiled. It was a dangerous little smirk; the sort of grin that drew a man in, even as he knew he'd regret finding out the source of her amusement. A look in short, that Mr. Peppermint was very familiar with.

"Oh how I would love to say that you have fifty seven minutes to find him . . . but that would be cruel," she sighed. "On the other hand, Mike TeeVee didn't exactly play fair with us either. "

"Is he injured?" Miss Honey asked gently. Miss Chocolate shook her head and hopped off the bar.

"Just a few ant bites and a lot of pride. At the moment he's resting comfortably. Before we call this run to an end though, I want a straight answer: have we won or not? Because I'm NOT doing this again, and I'm not going to give up Mr. Peppermint." She announced, dusting off her backside and standing before the two older people. "What's the verdict?"

Mr. Sugar looked at Miss Honey, and then back at Miss Chocolate, his blue eyes taking her in as Mr. Peppermint moved to stand beside her; close but not touching, complementing and completing.

"I vote you stay paired, and that the Shop use pairs as they occur, naturally. Not even trained teams are able to handle the Gauntlet at times, but the two of you came out of left field on it, and even if I'm not thrilled with having it damaged and being held hostage—to the tune of a hundred and thirty bucks no less—I can't deny your effectiveness. I'm voting yes."

Everyone looked at Miss Honey, who pursed her mouth, all the better not to smile. She glanced from Mr. Peppermint to Miss Chocolate and back again. "Before I vote, let me ask you this. What if?"

"What if?" Miss Chocolate echoed. Miss Honey nodded, her expression saddening a bit.

"What if. What if you grow apart? What if you fight, or come to a parting of the ways? What if one of you dies? What then? Two disgruntled agents? One grieving agent? What does that do for our agency?"

For a moment no one spoke.

Mr. Peppermint cleared his throat. "For the agency . . . I don't know and I can't say. But for us, as people within it, a hell of a lot. Our teams are composed of broken people who already have gone through a parting of the ways with society in general. Some of us have deeper wounds. We're human, and as such, just as prone to the downside of love as the upside. But in all the time any of us have worked in the Shop, we've also worked to heal ourselves, and reaching out to love is the biggest step of all. Miss Chocolate and I may not last, no—but I for one am not ready to let this go without doing everything I can to keep it right, and good."

Miss Chocolate looked at him with an open and amazed expression, her cheeks flushing slightly. Mr. Peppermint reached down and took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.

"What . . . he said," she murmured, a little dazed, her dimples deepening.

Miss Honey drew in a sigh and smiled gently. "In the face of such conviction—and by the merit of a LOT of thinking outside the box—all right. I vote yes as well."

"Good." Mr. Peppermint said softly. "Now let's get it in writing in front of a witness, please. Miss Chocolate?"

She reluctantly let go of his hand and walked to the back of the saloon, waving for everyone else to follow her. Beyond one of the nondescript doors on a medical gurney lay Mike TeeVee, still bound, but with dabs of ointment over spots on his face. He looked resigned at the group came into the first aid station. "Interesting development in the course of the run—" he rumbled, shooting Mr. Peppermint a ruefully hard look.

Mr. Sugar stepped over and began untying him. "All the more incentive to rethink the Gauntlet from the ground up, Mike. If you go with the premise that agents will be in pairs, what would you, will you change?"

Mike opened his mouth then closed it again as Mr. Sugar helped him to sit up. "I've got some ideas, but nothing I'm going to say in front of those two. Gotta ask though--does this mean—you're not going to decommission the place?"

"Perish the thought—we've got a lot of capital tied up in Eternity!" Miss Honey protested. "Besides, new agents will still need to be certified, and as technology advances, everyone else will benefit from the chance to practice and improve."

Mike looked around at the four people and for a moment he fell silent, then drew in a breath. "I need . . . . I need to clear it with Miss Lollipop." There was something in his tone that Miss Chocolate and Mr. Peppermint recognized, and they shot each other compassionate looks.

Gently, Mr. Peppermint laid a hand on Mike's shoulder. "No rush, Mike. If anybody knows how easy it is to get lost in your work, It's us. And for what it's worth, up through the church this was a hell of a run. I don't think either of us alone would have even come NEAR to breaking the time."

Mike smiled at that.

00oo00

The elevator ride down into the Shop was interesting; both Greg and David were blindfolded, and neither man looked comfortable. When the car stopped, far below the Truman Tower, Sugar Daddy opened the doors and two women were waiting outside, one with a wheelchair.

Greg blinked at them. "Hello?" he asked softly. The two women looked at each other and shook their heads.

The tall one gave a sigh. "This is bad."

The other one nodded. "Mondo bad. We'll take him from here, Dad."

Sugar Daddy nodded, watching Sugar Baby and Miss Lemon Drop wheel Greg away, and then turned to David. "He's going for a blood draw and a general physical. Let's grab some coffee and wait, shall we?"

David was eyeing the hallways curiously, taking note of everything. "This . . . is a little unusual."

"This is a lot unusual," Sugar Daddy corrected, setting Grenadine down. "But this is also Vegas, which means nothing's really what it seems. You're a tailor, right?"

"Yes," David agreed, walking with Sugar Daddy down the hallway. He was ushered into what appeared to be a fairly plush break room. In it, two men were watching TV; they looked up.

"Hey—who's this?"

Sugar Daddy held up a hand and turned to David. "How long would it take you to dress the tall one in a three piece suit, and the shorter one in a policeman's uniform?"

"Working from scratch or a base wardrobe?" David asked quietly.

"Base wardrobe for each, no limit on accessories or necessary props."

"For the taller gentleman, about twenty minutes, give or take a hemming, and for the other, maybe thirty if I have to adjust rank or add commendations," David replied, his voice gaining confidence. "If you need prop pockets or quick change access it might take a little longer."

"Who is this guy?" Licorice asked, frowning. Sugar Daddy hid a smile and stepped out of the break room, motioning David to do the same. They walked further down the hall and reached a glass fronted room where a curvaceous woman in a lab coat was working with a mini-flame thrower attached to her wrist.

"How about her, as a nun?"

"Nun or Sister—there is a difference in dress," David demanded, a shy smile on his lips. Sugar Daddy's eyebrows went up and he looked David over carefully. Finally, he spoke in a soft voice.

"How would you like to run a shop of your very own, and do this city a good deed in turn? I can't promise you beautiful chorus girls, but the work around here is steady, pays well, and we could use someone with an eye for details."

David blinked a little. "I sort of figured out you guys aren't in Sales—the flame thrower sort of clinched that. Is it . . . illegal?"

Sugar Daddy shrugged. "Sometimes. Depends on how you define the greater good."

"Are you the government?"

"Not hardly."

"Okay then. I'm in," David sighed with a small smile.

_(Coming next: Candy Shop: The Two Mrs. Grissoms)_


End file.
